Chapter 36 #2
I looked up at Septimus. He was still, hands delicately crossed in his lap, still gazing into the fire, which now popped and cracked as if coughing up the final remnants of the poison.
“Why did you show me that?” I said. My voice was shaking.
“Because I wanted you to know what you suffered for.”
When his gaze slipped from the flames, when it met mine, I was frozen, even though every instinct of self-preservation screamed at me to turn away.
“And it’s selfish of me,” he went on, quietly.
“I know that. It’s selfish that I care what you think of me, after everything I’ve done.
But I want you to know why I did this. I want you to know that I’m sorry it led to so much pain for you.
And I—” He looked away. His hand twitched, as if reaching for me before he thought better of it. “I wish it hadn’t.”
The mass of emotions in my chest was too confusing, too painful, to untangle. I remembered when he’d screamed at me after Kastivai—I’ve saved this world from horrors you can’t even dream.
And yet, I was furious. Furious at all of it. Furious that any of these things had to happen at all, that it was all so fucking unavoidable. And I knew—even now, I knew—that my anger in him was misplaced. But the gods were up there. And he was right here.
“So what now?” I spat. “You show me all this as if I’m supposed to believe that it was the right thing. Like I’m supposed to trust that every calculation you made was the correct one.”
“Perhaps they weren’t. Seering is imperfect. There are lots of blind spots.”
I stood, pacing again. “And am I supposed to think of you as some kind of misunderstood hero?”
He rose, too. “No. My brother was the hero, and he died for it. A hero would never do the things I have done, and they certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as I have.
I know that.” He caught my arm. It was such a soft touch, barely any pressure at all.
But the look on his face, serious and raw, made me stop short.
“I’m no hero, lyri.” The corner of his mouth curled. “Hence why I’ve hired one instead. Better than I could ever be.”
On the surface, it was the same smirk I had seen now a hundred times. But there was nothing snide in this expression. He looked hopeful. He looked young.
All my arguments died in my throat. All that anger strangled by confusing kinship.
“You can be angry at me for hiding information from you,” he said.
“Maybe I deserve that. Or you can be angry at me because my actions hurt you. I certainly deserve that. Fine. But monsters recognize monsters. I know you want this blood just as much as I do. You want it more than you hate me. We have one chance to bring about a world that is no longer ruled by the whims of the gods. A world in which no one else has to suffer the way we did. And I will be more honest with you now than I have with anyone else in a very long time.”
The smirk was gone. A wrinkle deepened between his brows. Still, his hand did not leave my arm.
“The Bloodborn have never had centuries upon centuries to play games like the other vampires do. But I have less time than most. I know I will not live to see the world that will come after this. But goddess fucking help me, Kyrene, this will end with me. This will end with me.”
I reached for words and found none. Instead, I watched the red threads of color reach slowly toward Septimus’s pupil. The hopefulness was now gone, replaced with a raw mix of fury and anger and pain and determination, all these emotions that I saw in myself every time I looked in the mirror, too.
We stared at each other. Tick, tick, tick, a clock hummed.
And just as I was, at last, about to speak, a thump came from the next room.
“My prince!” a woman’s exasperated voice called.
And then, a child’s: “Septimus!”
Septimus’s brow rose. He blinked, let go of my arm, and didn’t quite have time to turn around when a small figure bolted into the room and threw themself against him.
Septimus let out an exaggerated oof as the child climbed onto his back. “Attacked in my own home!” he grumbled. “What a disgrace.”
He tossed the child onto the couch, which earned a fit of laughter. The child scrambled upright, grinning up at Septimus. The little points of his teeth glinted in the firelight—now unremarkable, absent of all ugly pasts and futures.
The boy was, if I had to guess, about ten years old. He had ash-blond hair that came to his shoulders, silky and tucked behind his ears, messy on one side from his run-in with the couch cushions.
“They said you wouldn’t be back anytime soon,” he said. “Did you bring anything from the south?”
“Spoiled prince,” Septimus huffed. “You learn I’m home, immediately attack me, and then start demanding treasure.”
The boy giggled. Then he seemed to notice me for the first time. He shut his mouth, suddenly shy in the presence of a stranger. His nostrils flared. Funny how even a vampire child would know immediately that a human was near.
He had such unusual eyes. Silver and amber intertwined. A truly uncanny resemblance.
Septimus stood behind the couch, hands on the boy’s shoulders.
“This is Kyrene,” he said. “A . . . colleague of mine. She is a guest here.”
“A guest?” the boy repeated, like this was a foreign word.
“Meaning, don’t attack her.” Septimus’s eyes lifted to mine. A fleeting vulnerability passed, barely visible, over his features. “Kyrene, meet Alric.” He paused, just for a split second, the next words heavy despite his forced nonchalance: “This is my brother.”
All at once, I understood so much.
I stared at this child as the pieces slid into place. A prophecy that had taken six Bloodborn princes. Septimus’s decision to begin this task eleven years ago, and the age of the boy that stood before me. It all made such perfect, terrible sense.
This is my brother.
In those four words, I heard the echo of his declaration:
This will end with me.