Barb Hendee - Blood Memories

Only because he was right.

"He knows what we are," I said. "How to really end us, not like a peasant with stakes. He used a shovel to cut off William's head."

"You and Maggie shared a weakness, having grown too dependent on your gifts. Not lions anymore, but snakes, waiting only for the right time to strike. William was no challenge, old and weak. I am still a lion, and I am not weak."

His words weren't a hollow boast to impress me. Philip wielded the truth like a weapon. But he barely mentioned Maggie's name after leaving the hotel last night. I thought his mourning must either be internal or past. Now he wanted revenge. What good would it do? We couldn't get Maggie back.

"Can't we just go, Philip? Just run? There's nothing left here. Killing Dominick won't change anything."

"Are you coming, or do I go alone?"

The thought of staying here by myself, wondering, waiting, frightened me more than Dominick did. "I'm coming. But promise you won't play with him. He's dangerous. Promise we'll just do it and go."

"Whatever you want." He seemed pleased, like a little boy with a new puppy. He glanced around the old junkyard. "These cars don't work. We have to find others."

"Couldn't we just call a cab?"

A little over an hour later, we pulled up to Maggie's in a 79 Chevy pickup with Styx's "Pieces of Eight" flooding from the speakers-Philip had actually wanted to put in Boston. I was going to have a serious talk with him about music when we had time.

"Didn't you ever watch MTV?"

"What's that?"

"Forget it."

Somebody else must be buying his clothes.

The house looked dark.

Stepping from the car, I cast around with my mind for Wade. He wasn't here. That would be just like him, though, to come back here instead of running for Portland.

Philip walked out the front gate and came back a moment later. "There's a dark-haired man two blocks down the street in a silver Mustang."

"That's him." Fear crawled up the back of my neck.

"Good, then he saw us drive up. Do you have a key?"

"A key?" I tried to smile, but my teeth kept clicking. "Mr. Break-and-Enter wants a key?"

"If I know Maggie, this place will be locked like a fortress."

"Dominick broke in the night he killed William."

"Then somebody got careless-left a window open maybe."

Did we? I didn't think so. But that would be too much to bear. Guilt from William's death weighed heavily enough.

I had a set of keys, but getting past the multiple locks on the front door still took a few minutes. Philip had been right about that. There was also a dead bolt that someone would normally have to slide back from the inside, but Wade and I left in a hurry the night before last, out the back.

"Okay, we're in," I said.

"Leave the door cracked. I want him to waltz right inside."

"He isn't that careless."

"We'll see."

"Do you want another shirt? That one's all stiff."

We went upstairs to Maggie's room. I took my coat off and laid it on the bed, but then I watched Philip's face as he walked in. He disappointed me a little. Instead of gasping in awe at her wondrous creation, he stepped to the window and lifted up yards of satin drapes to expose a blacked-out window laced with steel bars. He stomped his foot once against the floor.

"Good," he said. "Hardwood floors beneath the carpet, Sheetrock walls. We can sleep in here if we have to. What's the door reinforced with?"

I'd never even noticed the bars before. Philip must have known Maggie far better than I had. This room made me happy because of its beauty. But we definitely weren't sleeping here-too high off the ground. So, instead of answering his question, I went to the walk-in closet and found an oversized plaid flannel shirt… maybe from Maggie's baseball player?

"Here, this will fit."

He wrinkled his nose. "I am not wearing that."

Was he serious?

"Philip, no one cares how you're dressed right now. This is soft, and it will fit loose if you don't tuck it in. You'll be able to move." How could anyone with his fashion sense listen to Boston?

With an annoyed look, he began unbuttoning the stiff fabric of his shirt. Curious, I stood watching him undress. I wasn't disappointed, only surprised. The proportions of his arms, chest, and flat stomach were perfect, like his face. However, four ugly burn marks stood out on his left shoulder, marring the image.

"What happened to you?"

"Eh?"

"Your shoulder."

"Oh, that. Old scars from when I lived as a mortal. Since we keep whatever form we were turned with, they didn't heal."

"You were burned? How?"

"My father, I think. With cigars. That is what Julian told me."

My stomach clenched. "Your father did that?"

"I think. Almost everything from before being turned is lost, hard to remember."

"Not for me."

He nodded. "Or for Julian. He remembers everything."

I looked at his burns. It was possible he'd blocked his past out if his father abused him. We all think we're so cool, so above it all. But Edward cashed his own ticket, and Philip existed in a state of self-induced memory loss.

Casting around for Wade again, almost sure he'd come back here, my knees buckled when overwhelming emotions of hate and triumph hit me.

Dominick.

"He's in the house."

Philip whirled without putting the flannel shirt on. "How do you know? I don't hear anything."

"He's here."

"Where?"

Trying to locate him, I met with a mental wall and remembered how completely he could block Wade. "I can't tell. Downstairs somewhere."

Philip's expression stopped me. His eyes were anxious, almost repulsed. "How do you know this?"

"He's psychic," I answered in half-truth. "His presence can be felt, like images when you're feeding."

"Telepathic?"

"Psychometric. I told you that last night."

Partial relief crossed his face. What was he afraid of? Before I could push the matter, he slipped out and called down the stairs.

"Dominick, I know you are there. Come and play with me."

His voice sounded eerie, almost musical. Murdering those teenagers last night had been his idea of a good time. He'd felt no malice, no sense of anger toward them. What would he do to someone he hated? I moved up behind him.

"Are you afraid?" he called. "Used to fighting little girls and old men. Come try your shovel on me."

No one answered.

Philip's strength and speed made him arrogant; at least I thought so. Dominick fought with more than guns and shovels. He knew about us. He had touched and absorbed all the antiques and personal possessions at Edward's, their secrets spilled on the floor like aged wine. What we feared. How we died. He knew these things.

"Philip, come away from the banister," I begged.

Before he could answer me, Dom's first shot rang out. Long and loud, like dynamite. The entire left side of Philip's throat exploded, spraying near-black blood across the hallway. The next shot sounded almost instantaneously. It missed.

"You like games?" a deep voice echoed up. "How was that?"

Philip collapsed on the carpet, awake but stunned, his perfect mouth twisting in surprise. Running footsteps pounded up the stairs. Dominick's shadow grew large on the wall.

I panicked.

More through instinct than intent, I tried pushing my thoughts inside his mind, and I emanated pictures of Culker's death, Maggie drinking from the drifter near Blue Jack's, the tattoo artist sinking into Union Bay. I tried to force every ugly, violent image I could summon straight into Dominick's head, past his wall, past his mental block, into his consciousness. And I got through.

He screamed.

I fired out with memories of ripped throats and dead bodies with staring eyes… and I could feel that my forced invasion hurt him. I tried to hurt him more.