Immortal War

fairly sure he’d just seen a mouse dart across underneath. At the other end of the chaise lay a “tav”—Vampirate parlance for a tavern girl, or indeed boy. A girl in this case. Her shirt was unbuttoned, her arms cupped softly in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her mouth slightly open.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said, his own eyes still on the floorboards. “Could we just talk for a bit?”

She didn’t answer, and, after a short wait, he turned to face her. He realized she was out cold. Connor felt a sweep of panic. He had been beside himself with hunger tonight. Had he taken too much blood? They didn’t usually pass out after only a pint.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, leaning closer and taking the girl’s pulse. To his relief, it was still beating, albeit slowly. She’d come back to life soon enough. He decided to wait here until she did—for his sake as much as hers. His own pulse was racing now. The new energy he had drawn from her was fizzing and snapping through him.

What was her name? Had she even told him? Names were of little importance here, especially at the outset of an urgent transaction. But now, seeing her properly for the first time, rather than through the red mist of his hunger, he wished that he’d paid more attention. Noticing the almost dry puncture wounds on her thorax, he drew the sides of her shirt back together to protect her modesty. As he did so, he saw that a tarnished gold necklace hung around her neck. The chain was askew and he reached forward and carefully straightened it. Suspended on the chain was something he first assumed to be a random pattern. Then he saw that it was a name. Petra. He smiled.

His attention was diverted by the old clock, ticking on the mantel. The light in this room, like all the others, was meager. Lilith kidded herself it was all in the cause of “mood-lighting,” but more likely it was a matter of simple economics. Connor squinted to read the clock face through the gloom. As he did so, he smiled with wry recognition.

“After midnight,” he said. “You know what that makes it, Petra?” He turned back toward her. “My birthday. Not much to celebrate today, however.”

He gazed at Petra, wishing that she would respond. He experienced another wave of panic and guilt and reached for her wrist again. The pulse was stronger than before. Good. But he was in no doubt now. He’d fed too hard. Just how much had he taken to bring her to this state?

He kept hold of her hand, reluctant somehow to let her go. “Of course, I don’t know if birthdays really mean anything to me anymore,” he mused. “Now that I’m a dhampir, that is. Now that I’m immortal, do birthdays even count? Maybe next year, I won’t even bother marking it.” He paused, aware once more of the ticking of the clock. “Does time have any meaning at all now?” He squeezed Petra’s hand for comfort, but the cool limpness of her hand made him feel lonely and he released it, placing it back on her diaphragm.

“Birthdays are a time for friends,” he said now, eyes seeking out the clock face once more. “I should get back to The Tiger. Maybe Jasmine will make a fuss over me.” He smiled at Petra. “Jasmine’s my girl,” he said. “The thing is, she doesn’t know about me. About me being a dhampir, I mean.” He suddenly smiled. “Maybe it’s time I just sat her down and told her. That could be my birthday gift to myself. Jasmine’s a really amazing girl. If anyone would understand, she would. It’d be such a weight off my mind. That really would make it a birthday to remember.”

“Birthday? Whose birthday?” Petra’s speech was slightly slurred.

“Petra!” Connor turned to face her and saw life blooming in her eyes once more. It was a huge relief to see that she was all right. She began drawing herself up straight on the chaise.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Some water, maybe?”

She shook her head slowly.

“Well, then.” He stood up. “I think I’d better go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He couldn’t wait to get out of this dingy room. He strode toward the door, then, having second thoughts, returned to the chaise, reached into his pocket, and took out a roll of notes. He placed them in Petra’s pale hand.

“Here’s some extra,” he said. “I may have taken more than I paid for, but Lilith doesn’t need to know, does she?”

Petra smiled softly and shook her head again. “Whose birthday is it?” she asked once more.

“No one that matters,” Connor said, then turned and slipped out through the door.

27

THE VORTEX

There was a spring in Darcy Flotsam’s step as she made her way along the passageway. In her hands was an old guitar she had found in the Corridor of Discards. She realized she must have walked past it a hundred times or more but today it had seemed to be calling out to her, winking beneath the light of the butter lamps. The guitar would make the perfect present for Jet now that he was firmly on the road to recovery. It might not be the Fender Strat ’54 he talked about with the fondness of a lost love, but he could certainly make music on this, and, as one musician to another, Darcy felt sure this would be solace enough. She would give it a good cleanup and then surprise him with it when she visited him again that night.

As Darcy turned the corner, she found Grace striding toward her. It took Darcy only an instant to notice the familiar bag in Grace’s right hand.

“So,” Darcy said. “This time you’re really leaving.”

Grace nodded, pausing before her friend. “You know that I have to.”

Darcy nodded, too, her eyes already wet. “Yes, but weren’t you even going to say good-bye to me?”

Grace placed the bag on the floor and reached out her hand to Darcy. “I was just coming to find you,” she said.

Darcy looked at her askance for a moment, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Grace. It’s just I’m going to miss you so much. We’ve been through so much together, especially these past few months. You’re the one who’s gotten me through.” Tears began to fall. “It’s selfish, I know, but I just don’t know how strong I am on my own.”

Grace gripped Darcy’s arm tightly and pulled her friend toward her. “You’re so much stronger than you realize,” she said. Then they hugged, holding each other tightly for a time, as if their very lives depended on it. When they finally broke apart, both young women had tears in their eyes.

Darcy, of course, was equipped with a lacy hankie. “I guess I hoped you’d change your mind about leaving,” she said as she blotted away her tears, then passed the hankie over.

“I’ve been torn,” Grace said. “If I had left the other day, I wouldn’t have been here to heal Jacoby or”—her voice dropped lower—“Johnny. I know someone else would have done the job perfectly well. It’s just that everyone is being pushed to their limits right now. The thing is…” She paused, handing the hankie back to Darcy. “The thing is, my father paid me a visit last night.”

“Sidorio!” Darcy exclaimed. “Here at Sanctuary?”

Grace nodded, shrugging. “It’s no surprise really. He comes and goes as he pleases now. Whatever we may want to believe, his powers only seem to be growing. He knows no bounds.”

“You say he came to see you?” Darcy asked.

“Yes.” Grace nodded. “And to bring me this.”

She unzipped the bag and retrieved from within it the canvas, which she held up in front of Darcy.

“Hmm,” Darcy said, clearly none too taken with it. “It’s not my kind of artwork, though I suppose it’s a reasonable likeness of you and Connor.”

“I don’t think I’ll be getting it framed anytime soon,” Grace said, folding it up again and putting it back in her bag. “But the portrait is unimportant, Darcy. You remember the prophecy: that one of us, Connor or me, must die?”

Darcy nodded, shuddering. Of course she remembered that prophecy, though she had hoped never to hear of it again.