Now Comes the Night (9 page)

Nighthawk licked his lips. He hesitated before answering, as though searching for the right words to say—the ones that wouldn’t get him pushed off the roof. “People,” he said at last.

“Wrong. What you see down there is the only thing that’s keeping you alive. You think they know about us, care about us? You think they’d lose a minute of sleep—or even a single second of their short, precious lives—if we vampires were to suddenly cease to exist? They don’t and they wouldn’t. They don’t owe us anything, pal. They’d do just fine without us. We, on the other hand, are
nothing
without them. We owe them everything, including our lives—past and future. They’re the only thing standing between us and oblivion. I want you to remember that. Whenever you look at them, touch them, taste them, or anything else, I want you to remember. That’s where you came from. Those people are the whole reason you’re still able to walk around tonight and run your smart-ass mouth. I don’t ever again want to hear you refer to them with anything other than respect. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got you.” Nighthawk took a step back from the ledge and sighed in obvious relief. He gazed at Marc ruefully. “You’re a real scary dude at times, you know that? You’re not that big, so I don’t get why that is, but you’re real scary all the same.”

“So you’ve said.” Marc sighed. He was Vampire. He’d always figured scary came with the territory, but he’d also always believed he belonged on the nice-guy end of the scale. Apparently not anymore.

The door to the roof slammed open. They both turned to look. Heather stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, glaring at them both. “There you are. Finally!” Then she turned her ire on Nighthawk. “I thought you were supposed to tell him to come down? What are you two still doing up here anyway?”

Nighthawk glared. “What do you want from me, woman? You asked me to come up, I came up. Now you wanna know why I’m still here? Take it up with him.” He nodded at Marc.

Marc smiled at Heather. Just looking at her brightened his mood. “What’s up, Moonbeam?” He held out his arm and she came and snuggled beneath it. He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head. The scent of her filled his lungs and left him giddy. “Did you want something?”

She blinked up at him curiously. “Moonbeam?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you light up my night.”

“I do?” She smiled. “That’s nice. Thanks.” She nodded toward the alley. “I just thought you should know that it’s getting kind of crowded down there. Don’t you think we should start letting people in?”

Marc nodded. “Sure. Good idea. Why don’t you go ahead and get that started? I’ll be right down.”

“Okay. I’ll do that. Don’t take too long.” Heather turned a withering glare on Nighthawk. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Nighthawk snorted. “Whatever you say—Moonbeam.”

“Oh, screw you.” Heather tossed her head and skipped back across the roof. When she got to the door she turned again. “And—FYI? You’re just jealous ‘cause you know Moonbeam’s a helluva better name than Nighthawk, you stupid poser. I think I’m gonna start calling you Nightduck from now on.”

“The hell you will,” Nighthawk growled.

Marc couldn’t help but smile. He had to agree with Heather. Nighthawk
was
a stupid name. Which is why he, for one, never used it. He’d go as far as to call the man beside him Hawk, if he absolutely had to, but that was it. Someday, he really had to ask him what his real name was. Feeling Nighthawk’s gaze on him, he turned and looked at him inquiringly. “What now?”

Nighthawk shrugged. “You do know she’s crushing on you, right?”

“Who is?”

Nighthawk nodded toward the door. “Moonbeam—who else? And, hey, do we really have to call her that, by the way? ‘Cause that’s really lame, if you ask me.”

Marc shook his head as his gaze—and his attention—turned outward toward the streets once again. “But I didn’t ask you, did I? And you know what? You’ll call her whatever she wants you to call her—you got that?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nighthawk hesitated then asked, “So…whaddaya think? You gonna do anything about that?”

Marc pulled his attention back with some difficulty. “Do what?”

“You know.” Nighthawk gestured vaguely with his hand. “Hook up. Tap that. Get jiggy. Whatever the fuck you wanna call it.”

“What—with Heather?” Marc glared. “I don’t think so, pal.”

“Why not?” Nighthawk’s gaze turned puzzled. “You don’t think she’s hot? Ya are into the ladies, aren’t you? I mean, hey, it’s no big deal if you’re not. If it happens you swing the other way, that’s cool. To each his own, right? I just didn’t want to get in the way of your game. But, I mean, if you’re not going there, I guess you don’t mind if I do?”

Marc all but leaped for Nighthawk’s throat. “Forget it. She’s a kid.”
You touch her, you die.
It was all he could do to keep that last thought from tumbling out of his mouth.

Nighthawk groaned. “Oh, c’mon, man, don’t give me that shit. If you want her for yourself, just say so. Otherwise, don’t talk crap. We both know she can’t be no kid, right?”

“Do we?”

“Well, yeah, sure, we do. ‘Cause vampire kids don’t exist. They’re just not fucking possible.”

“Oh, they’re not, huh?” Marc struggled to keep a smile from breaking out. Meanwhile, his guts twisted as old orders to keep his silence on the subject scrabbled for a fresh grip on his newly rebellious mind. Apparently, he and his sister didn’t exist. Who knew? “Why’s everyone keep saying things like that anyway? It’s bullshit and I’m getting tired of listening to it.”

“It’s not bullshit, dude. It’s straight-up fact. Everyone knows it. Vampires don’t age, right? That means kids that were turned would stay that way forever. You ever seen any vampire kids running around?”

“I may have.”

“Oh, like hell you have.”

“You don’t think so?” Marc’s head reeled. He was doing the impossible, breaking a lifelong ban on even discussing the subject. “Look…I don’t know why you’d assume they’d stay kids. In all likelihood, they’d age like other children and then stop when they’re grown—you know, when the growth hormones peter out.”

Nighthawk shook his head in disgust. “Aw, now you’re talking fairytales. Who’s been filling your head with that crap? You do know those stories aren’t real, don’tcha? They’re just make-believe. They don’t exist, bro.”

“What stories?”

“You know, about the whatchamacallits. The
Infragilis
.” Nighthawk gazed at Marc expectantly. Marc continued to stare blankly back. “The
Lamia Infragilis
,” Nighthawk repeated. “The vampire babies with all the woo-woo super powers?”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Lamia Infragilis
? Is that what he was? “I’ve never heard that term in my life.” Marc tried to dredge up a translation. He’d learned Latin as a child, one of many subjects Conrad thought important. Right now that seemed a very long time ago.
Lamia
meant vampire—that much he knew.
Infragilis
…the opposite of fragile, but even more so. Unbreakable? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He shook his head when his brain finally caught up with the rest of Nighthawk’s speech. “I’m sorry, did you just say ‘woo-woo’? What the fuck, man, you sound like a moron when you talk like that!”

Nighthawk grinned sheepishly. “Well, you’re the one who brought the subject up.”

Marc sighed. “Whatever. Let’s get downstairs.” Sometime soon he was going to have to get to the bottom of this. Not that he knew how exactly to do that. He still could only broach the subject from a more-than-theoretical angle with a handful of people. Three, to be exact. And two of those three either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell him anything he needed to know. He was sure his sister was as clueless as he, and Damian wouldn’t say anything without Conrad’s permission.

Which left Conrad himself. Something told Marc that this topic of conversation wouldn’t go over well with his sire, but he supposed he’d have to try it just the same. He was headed for the door when Nighthawk put a hand on his arm to stop him.

Marc glanced pointedly at his arm and growled quietly. Nighthawk’s hand fell to his side. “Can you just wait a minute?” the feral asked, fidgeting slightly. “There’s something else I wanna ask you.”

“This isn’t about Heather again, is it?”

Nighthawk shook his head. “Not this time.”

“All right, then. I’m listening.”

“It’s about what you promised,” Nighthawk blurted nervously. “You know, the night we met? And, look, don’t get me wrong ‘cause it’s not like I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for us. Letting us stay here, making sure we’re all fed and safe and all, but we need a House, man. We need a sire—someone who’ll claim us, stick up for us, make us legit again.”

Marc nodded. Sticking up for them, taking care of them, protecting them—wasn’t that precisely what he’d been doing? How come that didn’t count? But he knew the answer. It didn’t count because, in everyone’s eyes, he was no one special—just some half-blind, wet-behind-the-ears kid. What they wanted—what they needed—was a real sire, someone with centuries of clout, with unarguable authority, with proven muscle. Someone like Conrad.

“I’ll talk to Conrad about it, okay? I just…I just want to wait a while longer. Just until a few more of the rough edges have been smoothed off. Everyone thinks ferals can’t change, I want to prove them wrong.”

Nighthawk shuffled nervously. “Yeah, but…that’s the thing. What if they’re
not
wrong? You want to make us over, but what if…what if we need to belong to someone first?”

“You do belong to someone,” Marc said. Once again he clamped his mouth shut quickly, trapping the rest of the words inside.
You belong to me
. No. That was fucking crazy. “You belong to each other. You’ve built a family here, haven’t you? Isn’t that what you’ve done?”

“I dunno, is it? I mean, sure that’s what I
tried
to do but you saw how things were going. It didn’t seem like it was working too well.”

“That’s ‘cause you partnered with a psycho! What’d you expect?”

Nighthawk shrugged. “Yeah, well…”

“Don’t ‘yeah, well’ me. That was fucking stupid. You could’ve been killed, working for that crazy bitch. Did you see what she did to me? What she did to Heather?”
What she did to Conrad.
“And, I tell you what. If she’d killed you, you’d have deserved it.”

“Look, man, what was I s’posed to do? She was the only one who’d ever offered to help. I had to give it a try. You don’t know what it’s like being feral. It’s like… Aw, hell. Forget it. You don’t even wanna know what it’s like. You’d have taken the risk too.”

Marc suppressed a wince. “Yeah. I get that.” Between the pain in Nighthawk’s voice, the same pain he’d seen reflected in the other ferals’ eyes, and all the stories non-ferals had shared with him about why ferals sucked and should all be destroyed, he had no doubt that life as a feral was beyond hard. “And that’s exactly why I’m trying to fix things for you now. Just…give me some time to talk to Conrad, to get him on board. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

Nighthawk nodded. “Okay. If you say so. We’re counting on you, man.”

“Good.” Marc clapped the feral on his back. “You do that. Just leave everything to me.” Now all he had to do was convince Conrad. But why should that be a problem? Conrad’s nest was large, widespread and varied—who’d even notice if he quietly added another dozen or so to the fold?

Chapter Five

Armand paused in the gym’s doorway.
Merde
. The room wasn’t empty. Worse yet, its sole occupant was the very person he’d been doing his best to avoid. Julie was seated on one of the floor mats. His gut tightened as the scent of her launched its usual assault on his senses. She glanced up at him, her own awareness etched plainly on her face. And even though she quickly glanced away again, the damage was done. He’d heard the startled flutter in her pulse. He’d seen the tears that filled her eyes.

He hesitated a moment longer. Whatever she was upset about this time, he’d bet a month’s supply of blood it hadn’t anything to do with him. Getting sucked into a conversation about whatever
was
bothering her was the last thing he wanted, and Julie was clearly no more eager for that conversation than he was. He should just go away and give her back her privacy. If she hadn’t already seen him, that’s just what he would do.

If she hadn’t already seen him, he could have pretended he was never here. He could have backed quietly out of the room and come back later. But she
had
seen him and now his pride wouldn’t let him leave. It wasn’t
he
who should be running anywhere.

It wasn’t Armand who was to blame for the awkwardness between them. It wasn’t he who’d appropriated a suitcase of someone else’s belongings. A suitcase that contained all Armand had left to remind him of the last woman he’d cared about. He certainly hadn’t forced himself to confess his feelings for his lost love, or to discuss a subject he’d spent the past forty years avoiding—for several, very valid reasons. And even then, after all of that, after he’d laid his soul bare, it wasn’t he who still refused to give the suitcase back.

It also hadn’t been Armand’s idea to call a halt to things between them after no more than a single “date”. Or who seemed intent now on acting as though the whole thing had never occurred—as though they hadn’t both been rocked by the kiss they’d shared, as though they hadn’t both wanted more from each other.