The Eternal Tomb (21 page)

Oliver just stared ahead but inside he rolled his eyes. This was all ridiculous.
This all began
, he thought,
when I was stolen from my human parents and sired
, but he didn't blame Phlox and Sebastian for that. They had merely wanted a child, and hadn't been able to have one. So they'd volunteered to raise the prophecy children. Oliver's origins were really Half-Light's doing. And because of those origins, he'd felt strange his entire existence. But that wasn't why he'd befriended Emalie. It had been because she was actually interested in him, not to mention how she was interesting herself, fascinating even. …
Gone
. …

“Then,” Mr. Crevlyn continued, “there was the mix-up with the murder of the Orani girl's cousin and whether the subsequent zombie was your minion—”

“His name is Dean,” Oliver added. He hated how Mr. Crevlyn always did this: not using names as if they somehow weren't worthy.

Mr. Crevlyn paused for only a moment, his smile undiminished. “Of course it is. And all of that business was, in fact, orchestrated by the LeRoux girl —”

“Lythia,” Oliver added.

“Yes, she was the zombie's true master, and she was trying to steal your prophecy. So, again, not your fault.” Mr. Crevlyn nodded like Oliver was supposed to feel good about that. “Then, let's see, following that we had the brief period where the girl tried to slay you—”

“Which wasn't
Emalie's
fault,” Oliver interrupted. He felt his anger growing. Mr. Crevlyn's smile lessened. Phlox eyed Oliver severely, but kept silent as he continued. “She was being controlled by The Brotherhood of the Fallen.
They
were the ones who wanted to slay me.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Crevlyn. “And finally, there was the continual misinformation given to you by the rogue Architect. Her deceptions led you to seek out Selene, the Orani oracle, to search for your original human parents, and to try to thwart your Anointment. Again, Désirée is a powerful being, and so one can hardly blame you for all that, can they?” Mr. Crevlyn's smile returned.

“Sure,” said Oliver. He knew by now that this was one of the goals of Mr. Crevlyn's visits: to make Oliver feel good about himself and his destiny. And an obvious second goal was to reform Oliver's image, and by extension his parents' image, in the Half-Light vampire community. There was much suspicion and mistrust as to whether the Nocturnes could handle being the family of the Nexia prophecy, but now that the Anointment had succeeded, and there was no other choice, Half-Light wanted to make sure that everyone saw the Nocturnes in a good light. It wasn't for Oliver and his family, it was for the safety of the prophecy, just like everything had always been.

Sebastian spoke up. “And has Half-Light determined the whereabouts of Dead Désirée?”

“She remains … unaccounted for,” said Mr. Crevlyn with a sigh, his smile faltering only momentarily, “but all measures are being taken to find her.” He turned back to Oliver. “Well, I must say, Oliver, it is a testament to your strength and guile that you are still here and not a pile of dust, considering all the danger you've been exposed to! This alone should prove your worth as the chosen vampire, don't you think?”

Oliver just shrugged. “Sure.”

“The closest he came to dust was when Half-Light tried to slay him,” said Phlox thinly.

“Ah yes,” said Mr. Crevlyn, “well, these things do happen. Luckily, as the new Director, I can assure you that I have a far better handle on things.”

Mr. Crevlyn reached out and ran his hand over the Menteur's Heart. Its glow brightened, flickering on all of their faces. He was increasing its sensitivity for this final question. “Now then, we really just have our one last usual piece of business to attend to before we're finished for the evening.” He leaned forward. “Oliver: Do you, or does anyone you know, have any idea as to the current whereabouts of the Orani girl?”

Oliver felt Phlox and Sebastian's eyes on him. He felt a rush of nerves in his gut. The crystal's glow made spots in his vision. At full strength, it would detect even the slightest hint of a lie. …

But, unfortunately, Oliver only had the truth to tell. “No.”

Mr. Crevlyn gazed at the crystal, and when its glow did not waver, his brow almost seemed to furrow. “And if she does try to contact you, or alert you to her whereabouts, I can only urge you, again, to let us know.”

Oliver nodded. “Sure.”

Mr. Crevlyn leaned over, blew out the crystal, and wrapped it up. The Codex's eyes extinguished. Both stood. “Oliver, on behalf of the Half-Light Consortium, I want to thank you and your family for your continued cooperation.”

“As if we had a choice,” growled Sebastian.

Mr. Crevlyn shrugged his eyebrows and continued. “We'll see you next time. And in the meantime, rest assured: We will be watching out for your best interests. Now, we don't want you to be late for school.”

Oliver just glared at him.

“You can let yourself out,” said Sebastian.

“Certainly,” Mr. Crevlyn replied, his grin unfaltering.

Oliver still hadn't moved as the sewer door clicked shut. Phlox leaned over and stroked his arm. “You did great. We endure these things, and we move on.”

Oliver didn't reply. He felt blank.

“You should get to school,” said Sebastian. “I'll walk there with you, if you—”

“Nah.” Oliver got to his feet. “It's fine. I'm … fine.” He wasn't, not at all, but he still had that thing to do before school and now he felt like he needed to more than ever.

Oliver headed into the kitchen, grabbed his bag and hurried out.

Chapter 2

Empty Spaces

OLIVER EMERGED FROM
the sewers and trudged through the falling evening to school. He was early; the last humans were still loitering out front, hunched against the drizzle, waiting for rides. Oliver walked right by, continuing up the street and across a damp park.

He knew that right now, in some Half-Light office downtown, his ankle sensor was announcing that he'd left his prescribed route to school, and an occupied vampire sentry was no doubt being dispatched to follow his movements, likely in the form of a bat or owl. But if he hurried, he should have enough time… .

He leapt easily onto the roof of a city bus, then sat, sweatshirt hood over his head, remembering a time when it had been hard for him to perform what now seemed like the most basic work controlling the forces. The first time he'd leapt onto this bus, he'd almost fallen off the side, and barely avoided being noticed.

Ten blocks later, he stood and vaulted off, over the streetlights, landing cat-like atop a house. He continued roof-to-roof. Some of the yards below had already been strung with holiday lights, splashes of warmth among bare, dripping branches. Their cheery glow only made the crowding sense of memory thicker in Oliver's mind.

He hopped one last time, landing on a triangular peak, and looked down. This yard was dark, consumed by wild tangles of blackberry vines. A white “For Sale” sign was barely visible in the snarls.

“'Sup.”

Oliver turned to a figure seated on the rooftop behind him. Despite the chilly rain, he wore only a steel-gray t-shirt, dark jeans, and muddy Converse. His arms were crossed atop his knees. Oliver made sure not to react to the sour odor flooding his nostrils.

“Hey,” Oliver said to Dean.

“How was the interrogation?” Dean asked.

Oliver huffed. “The usual. You coming?”

“Do I ever?” asked Dean. “Somebody needs to keep watch, anyway.”

Oliver nodded. “See you in a minute.”

He stepped over the side of the house, flipping under the eave so that he hung inverted like a bat. More memories … of watching from here as a door opened, as hands opened the first gift he'd given her, a new camera …

Oliver dropped to the ground. The basement door was locked, dead-bolted from the inside. To the right, a window was covered with plywood. It appeared to be thoroughly nailed shut, but only the four corner nails were actually sunk into the wall. The rest were just show. Oliver peeled the plywood carefully away so as not to bend the nails, leaned it against the base of the wall, and wormed through the narrow space. There were still a few glass shards sticking up here and there, but Oliver had learned how to avoid them.
Without oven mitts
, he thought to himself, considering not for the first time that now he was the intruder sneaking into the abandoned house, as she had once been.

The cobwebs seemed to double every time he visited. He brushed the gray curtains aside, moving through the pitch-black basement, between walls of cardboard boxes, until he reached the open space, bordered on two sides by boxes, on the third by a rusty washer and dryer, and on the fourth by a double sink. Water dripped from the leaky faucet. Oliver inspected the room but saw disappointedly that things were just as he'd left them. The pile of darkroom supplies on the shelf beside the sink, the strings that crisscrossed the ceiling strung with black-and-white photos …

Emalie's space. Her presence was everywhere.

After she and her parents and Great Aunt Kathleen had left for the old-west town of Arcana and the year 1868, a realtor friend of Aunt Kathleen's had come by and put that “For Sale” sign out front. It was just for show, though. The house was being held until they came back.

When Oliver first returned here, he'd found Emalie's piles of photographs beneath the sink. There were hundreds in all, and Oliver had strung some across the ceiling, taped more to the box sides around him and all over the washer and dryer. He'd tiled the floor with others.

He sat down now in the middle of the darkroom space, a collage all around him; it was like being in Emalie's mind, the world she'd seen through her camera eye. Over by the sink were some of the photos from the abandoned house above Oliver's home. From that first December morning, the chance encounter that had changed everything, set them off on so many adventures … and led to her leaving.

There was one thing in the room that wasn't Emalie's. In the middle of the floor was a foot-tall box, made of delicate wood and hinged at its sides so that it could be folded up and stored flat when not in use. Oliver flipped open the lid and reached inside without looking. His fingers brushed through the contents, making a quiet clattering sound, and emerged with a small, silver teardrop-shaped earring.

He held the earring, sniffed it gently, winced at the memories it unearthed, and then placed it on the floor, inside a small circle drawn with rose-colored gypsum sand. Then, he stood, cocked his ear toward the far corner of the room, and crept away. He returned to his seat a moment later, his hands cupped in front of him.

He opened them, revealing a tiny gray mouse lying on its side, unmoving except for the rapid rise and fall of its chest. It was alive, yet Oliver had stilled its soul, which put the creature in such a state of fear that it became frozen in a kind of paralyzed state.

The stilling gaze was a new skill which Oliver and his classmates had been learning this year. First, you identified the scents and force signatures of fear in the creature, and then you tried to project the essence of these feelings back through your gaze, which literally froze the creature in fright. You couldn't perform it on anything large, like a human, until you had your demon — Oliver had tried it on Dean one time, but Dean just laughed and made fun of Oliver's “serious” gaze—so his teacher, Mr. VanWick, had them practice on smaller creatures like mice or lizards.

Oliver held the little mouse over the earring and with his other hand, extended his index finger. “
Ensacrifetthhh
…” he hissed quietly, employing the ancient Skrit word for “in sacrifice,” as in, in service to a greater cause. Then, he drew his long, sharp fingernail across the little mouse's neck.

When three drops of blood had fallen into the circle, he produced a tissue, wrapped up the mouse, then paused. The scent was strong. … He couldn't resist a snack before slipping the mouse's body away in his pocket.
She would have thought that was gross
, Oliver thought, and it only heightened his empty feeling.

“It's ready,” he said quietly in the dark.

The basement was silent for a moment, then there was a slight rush of wind. Two forms shimmered into existence before Oliver: one of dark wispy smoke, the other of shimmering white light, with silver edges that threw off blue sparks.

Hey guys
, Oliver thought to Jenette and Nathan.

Hey,
Nathan replied. Oliver felt that familiar warmth from his presence; Nathan was Oliver's soul. Oliver was the only vampire in history whose soul was still attached to him. All other vampire children had been created in a lab, and never had souls to begin with, and all adult vampires had demons, which they received when they were sired, meaning turned from humans into vampires. The demon's arrival severed the connection with the soul, and the soul journeyed out of the world.

Unlike all the other vampire children, Oliver had actually been specially sired, as had Bane, when they were infants. So, Oliver did have a soul, and because he hadn't received a demon yet—vampire children didn't get their demons until their teen years, when their bodies were strong enough—his soul had lingered on, separated from him but not completely.

They could only risk seeing each other briefly these days. If Half-Light found Nathan, they would surely destroy him. Jenette and the other wraiths kept him safe out at the Shoals, a borderland on the edge of the world.

It was nice to see Nathan. Oliver liked to feel that warmth that was also his own, and yet Nathan's proximity also reminded him of the hollow spaces inside him. In the one moment when they'd been able to join together, in the house of Oliver's birth parents, Oliver had felt so complete, as if Nathan filled those empty places, and he couldn't help wishing for that feeling again. The idea of
wanting
to have a soul, maybe even to be alive, was something that other vampires would surely turn up their noses at. After all, humans were so short-lived, so frail, so ruled by the love/hate power of Finity. Who would want to be a lowly living thing?