in all things.”
Tristan shifted his weight insolently. “Actually, I’m an orphan. And I don’t believe in gods.”
Loftus shoved him inside the opening. Stumbling along a narrow corridor, Tristan entered into a lightless, limitless space. It was cool and smelled of damp rock, and the darkness of it would have swallowed his screams if it hadn’t already stolen the breath from his lungs. The darkness didn’t abate, no matter how hard he stared into it. He didn’t move, afraid he might find himself adrift in the shapeless, never-ending black.
His knees hit the ground as the weight of nightmares pressed upon him. He felt, rather than saw, images of bloodstained skin, of faceless trembling children, of a beautiful woman cloaked in death. His chest heaved as he reco gnized himself and his potential for atrocity in that revealing darkness. He’d already fucked with sick shit in his life. What was one more bloody nightmare, what was a lifetime of them. He would never be anything but something damned.
Sobbing dryly, he groped his way around, disoriented by the utter blackness, until he felt hands on his shoulders. He cried out and stumbled back, afraid of what he couldn’t see. His chest felt ho llow, light as air. Loftus spoke.
“Do you realize, Tristan? Do you realize what you’re meant for?”
“I do,” Tristan had replied, feeling sick and crazy in a wild, needful way. He would never feel sentimental or sorry for himself again.
“You are not lost to us after all,” Loftus had said proudly. “You have been found.”
The tall, silver-haired man in black had worked to form them from a young age to obey his commands. He’d nurtured savagery in them with his own brand of shocking cruelty and insidious control. Do you love your sister , he’d asked Tristan many times, bending low, the whisper full of unmistakable meaning. Augusta would be standing just a few feet away, oblivious. Do what he said, and he wouldn’t hurt her. The indoctrination had such deep roots it was often easier to be a tool than an individual. But none of them minded, because they called themselves his children. With Loftus, they had a place of belonging.
Dawn had fallen asleep on top of Tristan, listening for a heartbeat that didn’t exist. Not enough to matter. He eased her off and found his shoes. He left the room without bothering to restrain her. Maybe she’d run. He’d have fun chasing her.
Fallon was still at the church, immersed in his faith and rituals and ancient texts, all of which contradicted each other. He was another castoff of society, brought among their fold at the age of thirteen, six years ago. Branek said he was Loftus’s half-vampire son by some woman long dead, but none of them really knew who he was or why Loftus wanted him. Tristan had listened at the door once or twice during Fallon’s sessions with Loftus, the murmurs of magical incantations in languages he couldn’t understand filling him with deep unease.
Tristan strode confidently into the candlelit church. They hadn’t finished their earlier discussion. “It was harder to find you this time,” he said louder than was necessary, enjoying the way his voice filled up the space. “But not by much. You aren’t very good at hiding, and I’m great at finding what I need.”
Fallon’s voice, by contrast, was soft and measured. He lit a cone of incense at the altar. “I can imagine. I do try to elude you.”
“Next time you should probably leave the state, if you really want to make it a challenge.”
“How would I ever serve you heathens if you couldn’t find me?” The ghost of a smirk flitted across Fallon’s ascetic face. “I see you left the girl behind.”
“I didn’t want you to worry about speaking freely.”
“I’ve had years of immersive study. You couldn’t possibly understand if I were to speak freely.”
Tristan leaned down on a nearby pew, bored. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing here. “Indulge me,” he said,
Tristan shifted his weight insolently. “Actually, I’m an orphan. And I don’t believe in gods.”
Loftus shoved him inside the opening. Stumbling along a narrow corridor, Tristan entered into a lightless, limitless space. It was cool and smelled of damp rock, and the darkness of it would have swallowed his screams if it hadn’t already stolen the breath from his lungs. The darkness didn’t abate, no matter how hard he stared into it. He didn’t move, afraid he might find himself adrift in the shapeless, never-ending black.
His knees hit the ground as the weight of nightmares pressed upon him. He felt, rather than saw, images of bloodstained skin, of faceless trembling children, of a beautiful woman cloaked in death. His chest heaved as he reco gnized himself and his potential for atrocity in that revealing darkness. He’d already fucked with sick shit in his life. What was one more bloody nightmare, what was a lifetime of them. He would never be anything but something damned.
Sobbing dryly, he groped his way around, disoriented by the utter blackness, until he felt hands on his shoulders. He cried out and stumbled back, afraid of what he couldn’t see. His chest felt ho llow, light as air. Loftus spoke.
“Do you realize, Tristan? Do you realize what you’re meant for?”
“I do,” Tristan had replied, feeling sick and crazy in a wild, needful way. He would never feel sentimental or sorry for himself again.
“You are not lost to us after all,” Loftus had said proudly. “You have been found.”
The tall, silver-haired man in black had worked to form them from a young age to obey his commands. He’d nurtured savagery in them with his own brand of shocking cruelty and insidious control. Do you love your sister , he’d asked Tristan many times, bending low, the whisper full of unmistakable meaning. Augusta would be standing just a few feet away, oblivious. Do what he said, and he wouldn’t hurt her. The indoctrination had such deep roots it was often easier to be a tool than an individual. But none of them minded, because they called themselves his children. With Loftus, they had a place of belonging.
Dawn had fallen asleep on top of Tristan, listening for a heartbeat that didn’t exist. Not enough to matter. He eased her off and found his shoes. He left the room without bothering to restrain her. Maybe she’d run. He’d have fun chasing her.
Fallon was still at the church, immersed in his faith and rituals and ancient texts, all of which contradicted each other. He was another castoff of society, brought among their fold at the age of thirteen, six years ago. Branek said he was Loftus’s half-vampire son by some woman long dead, but none of them really knew who he was or why Loftus wanted him. Tristan had listened at the door once or twice during Fallon’s sessions with Loftus, the murmurs of magical incantations in languages he couldn’t understand filling him with deep unease.
Tristan strode confidently into the candlelit church. They hadn’t finished their earlier discussion. “It was harder to find you this time,” he said louder than was necessary, enjoying the way his voice filled up the space. “But not by much. You aren’t very good at hiding, and I’m great at finding what I need.”
Fallon’s voice, by contrast, was soft and measured. He lit a cone of incense at the altar. “I can imagine. I do try to elude you.”
“Next time you should probably leave the state, if you really want to make it a challenge.”
“How would I ever serve you heathens if you couldn’t find me?” The ghost of a smirk flitted across Fallon’s ascetic face. “I see you left the girl behind.”
“I didn’t want you to worry about speaking freely.”
“I’ve had years of immersive study. You couldn’t possibly understand if I were to speak freely.”
Tristan leaned down on a nearby pew, bored. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing here. “Indulge me,” he said,
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