26. The Flames Of Madness
26
The Flames Of Madness
Rory
H e tucks the bag under his arm and smiles tightly at the sales assistant. It takes some effort to keep his steps measured, calm. Calliope is waiting by the door, and he places a firm hand against her back, pushing her outside. She shoots him a confused look as he ushers her quickly around the corner and back down the alley they took earlier.
“I was thinking we could stop in at that cafe in the square,” she says, looking at him sideways, “I saw that they have spiced blood, and I think it’d—”
“No time.” He darts a look behind them, as he presses against the small of her back, urging her to turn again. His beat-up Oldsmobile comes into view and he quickens their pace. “Curfew.” He opens the door and angles his head, urging her to get inside.
She frowns, looking up at the sky. “It’s hours before sundown.”
His eyes dart between both ends of the alleyway, as he steps closer to her, voice lowered. “Calliope, I need you to get inside the car. Please.”
He wills her to see his worry, his anxiety, to understand that someone has recognized him. He knows she read about the Blood Wars. She knows about him, but only in an abstract sense. She doesn’t know how brutal other vampires can be, how much blood he’s spilled. She doesn’t understand, not truly, why he lives in a secluded house with no ties to any magical communities.
He could compel her, of course. Command her to get into the car. Force her to listen to his reasoning later. But the thought makes him sick. A shadow falls across the entrance of the alleyway. It’s the sales assistant from the apothecary and a guard, dressed the same as the one at the gates, though with dark hair closely shaved and of stouter stature.
Rory settles for showing her, sending just a flash of each memory through the connection she opened when she pulled him into her Mind’s Eye. He shows her the sales assistant, head cocked to the side, saying, “You look familiar.” He shows her his sister-in-law smiling, her canine and incisors sharpened into fine points, her lips stained with blood. He shows her the guard at the gates, with the same fang structure. He pulls up a memory of his sister-in-law cursing at him, spittle flying from her mouth as she swears to make him pay.
Calliope pulls back, gripping his biceps to steady herself. She glances behind them, sees the guard walking toward them, hand on the stake clipped into the holster on his belt. She nods quickly, already sliding into the passenger seat. He jogs around to the driver’s side and folds himself in, slamming the door. The engine roars into life and he presses down on the gas, the tires squealing.
In the rear view mirror, he sees the guard talking into a walkie talkie and curses under his breath. He drives faster, haphazardly navigating around the town square and eliciting quite a few stares and shouts of alarm. The car bounces along with a creak of protest as the cobblestone road becomes pockmarked earth and the gates come into view. They are approaching quickly, and Rory can see the other guard talking into his radio.
“Don’t stop,” says Calliope.
He darts a look over at her. She’s tossed her hat in the backseat and her hair crackles with energy. Her eyes are black, frost lining her lips as she whispers something. In front of them, the gates groan, unlatch and begin to scrape across the ground. The guard turns around, startled. For a moment, the vampire tries to stop the gates from opening, muscles straining with the effort. The metal bends with the force of the guard’s grip, then snaps back into shape with a preternatural rigidity as Calliope’s magic overcomes his strength. There’s a shock of red in Rory’s peripheral vision, and he looks over to see blood running down Calliope’s chin.
She covers her face. “Don’t stop.”
Fuck . Rory slams on the gas. The guard reluctantly steps out of the way, though the side view mirror still clips him.
And then they are merging back onto the highway, Lyon’s Cross firmly behind them. One eye on the road, Rory pops open the glove box and hands Calliope a bandana to staunch the bleeding. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Her voice is muffled by the cloth, quickly turning crimson. The smell of her blood—his blood, their blood—metallic and floral and a little off, tinged with the burned herbal smell of magic, makes his gums hurt. It overwhelms his senses for a brief, sharp moment. Some of his kind learned very early on that vampires can live off of any type of blood—human, animal, Fae, and even vampire. He never much had a craving for the blood of his own kind, though, finding it too intimate, almost sexual. He silently curses at his sudden reaction to her blood. Not the time. He keeps his eyes trained on the road, but he can feel her looking at him.
“What was that?” she asks. “That woman. The teeth…”
“You’ve read Sabine.”
She huffs. “Yeah, I seem to recall that she doesn’t check her sources, so I didn’t get very far.” She pulls down the visor and inspects her nose. The bleeding has stopped, crusting around the edges of her nostrils and she wipes at her face.
“What you did with the gate,” he says, eyes darting between her and the road ahead. “That’s what you did with the illusion, right? Pulled the magic from the Ether? Why did you get a nosebleed now and not then?”
“I don’t know.” She flips the visor up and levels her gaze at him. “It seems to happen when I push myself too far.” And then before he can linger on the notion that she might have put herself in danger to save them both, she adds, “Who is she? The woman you showed me.”
He instinctively tightens his grip on the steering wheel, glancing in the mirror again to make sure they’re not being followed. “My sister-in-law. After…after I ended the war, she put a price on my head. The guards belong to her. I had no idea she was in Lyon’s Cross.”
Her stare is piercing, calculating. “That’s why you’re in Willow Lake? Hiding away because she wants you dead.”
He nods, but avoids looking over at her. The trees blur by and the silence builds.
“Explain,” she says softly.
That’s it. Just one word, and his entire past comes spilling out of his mouth. She commands and he obeys. There are days when it feels like Rory’s life begins and ends with his brother, and so he starts there, now, his voice low, but steady.
* * *
The two brothers could have been twins if it wasn’t for their difference in size. Although they were the same height, Rory inherited the broad shoulders of their father, while Aodhán took hold of the elvish silhouette of their mother’s ancestors and refused to let go even as he got older. They used to joke that Aodhán was born from the long spindly arm of a tree, which fell to the ground with a crash of dew-drenched moss and out sprouted young Aodhán, with mischief tucked into his cheeks.
Rory, on the other hand, was the brooding waves that cracked upon the broken shore. He was born Artur, but his need to protect his little brother earned him the name Ruairidh. The King. Forever handing out proclamations and rules.
But unlike trees, Aodhán was a wild, restless creature, forever uprooted. Running headlong into the fray. Throwing himself and his soul upon the mercy of the Heavens. And unlike the ocean, Rory was firm. Unyielding. He was the hand on Aodhán’s shoulder, trying to keep him from falling over the edge of the cliff. He mostly succeeded, but occasionally fell along with him.
Despite their differences, Rory and Aodhán faced the world with the same bright blue eyes, twinned sympathy lining their mouths. When they listened to the moon-soft whispers of night, they tilted their head in the same way, ear pressed against something only they seemed to understand. An identical cut of chin spoke of warriors of old. They seemed to hold the knowledge of battle deep in their marrow.
They each had their own faults, of course. Aodhán held authority from the day he was born, but though his words were forgiving, his hands were calloused, nails worn down with weak excuses. Rory was, perhaps, too unmoveable. A giant’s step couldn’t shake the firm earth he stood upon. When the cries and indignation of those he loved became too loud to bear, he simply stopped caring. Because for all of his steadfastness, he was fickle at heart.
Until Irina Dobrev sauntered into their village with something quite like hunger sparking in her eyes. Her declarations of affection were delivered with a reluctance that made Rory proud. She’d never felt love so strong for anyone else. She was heartless, except when it came to him.
Rory was nearing forty-five at the point. He was childless, widowed, and desperately in love with Irina. He accepted her offering, her blood pooling like honey in his belly. He awoke with fangs and a hunger that surmounted even his love—or, at least, that’s what he thought it was at the time—for Irina .
For his brother, even.
Aodhán never had plans to join his brother in interminable damnation. Rory made the decision for him as he laid dying on a sickbed. It seemed wrong that Rory should be gifted immortality, when his brother—his precious brother whose eyes mirrored his own—would succumb to the pain of an unnamed affliction. Rory Turned him without hesitation, and even if he knew what his brother would become then, he would have made the same decision.
They traveled with Irina for several years. It’s how Aodhán met his wife, Aisling, whose father-by-Bite was the Head of the Fíor, a sect of vampires who ruled over the magical communities that dotted Ireland, Scotland, and Britain. Soon after, the Head of the Fíor died under suspicious circumstances and Aodhán, flanked by Aisling, Rory, and Irina, moved to capture the crown before the throne had even grown cold.
His rule was not accepted by all—and so began the First Blood War. It wasn’t until Rory had blood permanently crusted under his fingernails that he looked up and realized that Aodhán was no longer the brother he knew. Aodhán led with his Fangs and Rory grew weary of fighting.
He mourned the loss of his brother, then, and began to dismantle the war from the inside, passing along information to the opposing side, the Unaligned, those who refused to abide by King Aodhán’s rule.
When the war ended, Aodhán had a crown, but no throne to sit upon. They set off for the Americas, traveled, gathered alliances and handshakes, garnered support from new lands, new communities willing to kneel to the Fíor.
Another war seemed so far away to Rory. It was all talk, just words passed between the shadows. But when Rory looked up and saw the flames of madness rising again in his brother’s ice-blue eyes, he did what he deemed necessary.
It was remarkably easy. A cliff by the sea. A false smile. A stake pierced through flesh.
He watched as Aodhán fell to the earth, and he saw that flame of madness burn brighter, and then leave. He didn’t realize that it took his soul with it.
A darkness began to spread through Aisling’s heart. He understood, of course, and was resigned to his fate—his death at her hands. But some instinct inside of him refused to let go of his immortality. Something in him wanted to survive.
And so he fled.
Rory traveled, avoiding magical communities where he might be recognized. He’d hide out for a few years among humans, until they began to notice his lack of aging.
He was in Paris in 1989 when he stumbled into a bar that, unbeknownst to him, was owned by Aisling. The bartender recognized him and that instinctual need to survive pushed him back to Texas—back to the house that he had built, but which his brother and Aisling had hardly been aware of.
He was safe there.
They all were—him and Kane and Calliope.
And now he’s gone and fucked it all up.
* * *
When he finishes speaking, the silence stretches between them and if Rory didn’t need to keep his focus on the road, he would hang his head while he awaits his fate, baring his neck to the scythe of her judgment. There’s so much still left unsaid, buried deep down—but he is willing to dig it all up for her, lay himself bare if she would have him do so.
“Will she be able to find us now?” she asks. He can’t discern the emotion in her oddly toneless voice. It reminds him of when she first woke up in the basement. It makes his chest hurt.
“I don’t think so,” he answers hesitantly.
“Is the house protected by anything? Any type of wards or shields?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m sure the coven had something, but it’s been three years since a witch has lived in that house.”
“We have me now. I’m sure there’s something in the library. Kane can help me look when we get home.”
He nods, waiting desperately for a hint of something other than the pragmatic, numb expression she has now.
“It’s not your fault,” she tells him. “You had no reason to believe that she would be there.”
He shrugs but doesn’t reply. It’s true that he didn’t know she would be there. But the truth is heavy in his stomach: the possibility was always there and he ignored it.
“You know, there’s nothing keeping me at Graeme House.” Her words are soft, aimed at the window and not him.
An unspoken fear strikes him in the chest, traveling down his spine. She’s leaving , he thinks numbly. The leather of the steering wheel squeaks as he tightens his grip even more.
“Not physically anyway,” she continues. “The cuffs dampened my strength, but didn’t keep me from running.” A pause. She turns to look at him. “The truth is that I’m hiding too.”