Blood Memories

With an annoyed look, he began unbuttoning the stiff fabric of his shirt. Curious, I stood watching him undress. I wasn't disappointed, only surprised. The proportions of his arms, chest, and flat stomach were perfect, like his face. However, four ugly burn marks stood out on his left shoulder, marring the image.

"What happened to you?"

"Eh?"

"Your shoulder."

"Oh, that. Old scars from when I lived as a mortal. Since we keep whatever form we were turned with, they didn't heal."

"You were burned? How?"

"My father, I think. With cigars. That is what Julian told me."

My stomach clenched. "Your father did that?"

"I think. Almost everything from before being turned is lost, hard to remember."

"Not for me."

He nodded. "Or for Julian. He remembers everything."

I looked at his burns. It was possible he'd blocked his past out if his father abused him. We all think we're so cool, so above it all. But Edward cashed his own ticket, and Philip existed in a state of self-induced memory loss.

Casting around for Wade again, almost sure he'd come back here, my knees buckled when overwhelming emotions of hate and triumph hit me.

Dominick.

"He's in the house."

Philip whirled without putting the flannel shirt on. "How do you know? I don't hear anything."

"He's here."

"Where?"

Trying to locate him, I met with a mental wall and remembered how completely he could block Wade. "I can't tell. Downstairs somewhere."

Philip's expression stopped me. His eyes were anxious, almost repulsed. "How do you know this?"

"He's psychic," I answered in half-truth. "His presence can be felt, like images when you're feeding."

"Telepathic?"

"Psychometric. I told you that last night."

Partial relief crossed his face. What was he afraid of? Before I could push the matter, he slipped out and called down the stairs.

"Dominick, I know you are there. Come and play with me."

His voice sounded eerie, almost musical. Murdering those teenagers last night had been his idea of a good time. He'd felt no malice, no sense of anger toward them. What would he do to someone he hated? I moved up behind him.

"Are you afraid?" he called. "Used to fighting little girls and old men. Come try your shovel on me."

No one answered.

Philip's strength and speed made him arrogant; at least I thought so. Dominick fought with more than guns and shovels. He knew about us. He had touched and absorbed all the antiques and personal possessions at Edward's, their secrets spilled on the floor like aged wine. What we feared. How we died. He knew these things.

"Philip, come away from the banister," I begged.

Before he could answer me, Dom's first shot rang out. Long and loud, like dynamite. The entire left side of Philip's throat exploded, spraying near-black blood across the hallway. The next shot sounded almost instantaneously. It missed.

"You like games?" a deep voice echoed up. "How was that?"

Philip collapsed on the carpet, awake but stunned, his perfect mouth twisting in surprise. Running footsteps pounded up the stairs. Dominick's shadow grew large on the wall.

I panicked.

More through instinct than intent, I tried pushing my thoughts inside his mind, and I emanated pictures of Culker's death, Maggie drinking from the drifter near Blue Jack's, the tattoo artist sinking into Union Bay. I tried to force every ugly, violent image I could summon straight into Dominick's head, past his wall, past his mental block, into his consciousness. And I got through.

He screamed.

I fired out with memories of ripped throats and dead bodies with staring eyes… and I could feel that my forced invasion hurt him. I tried to hurt him more.

I still couldn't see him, but listened to him scream while I imagined my fingernails clawing, scratching, tearing at his brain… all my attention focused on his sound until it softened to a whimper.

Then I let him go and came back to myself-but only because I was certain he was down, and because I had to help Philip.

Turning quickly, I stumbled at the sight of an empty carpet. Philip had disappeared.

"Philip?"

"Don't move."

Dominick's sweating, gasping form stood at the top of the stairs. I was stunned to see him on his feet after what I'd just done to him. He looked dirty and smelled of stale perspiration. Greasy, outgrown black hair hung around his glazed eyes. He pointed a.357 revolver at me. Without waiting for him to fire, I bolted for the bedroom and paused just inside. He blurred across the threshold, his arm stick-straight, pointing the gun rapidly to the right, then the left. I slammed the door behind us and bolted it.

Focusing hard, I sent my impressions of this room-all the treasures in this small piece of the world-flooding into him. These mental attacks were exhausting me, but this was all I had. Images of lace fans, silver combs, perfume bottles, and cream satin soaked into his brain like water through sand. I was hoping to lose him in the images of Maggie's soft possessions, blinding him to everything else, so even if he gained coherence he might not know what was true or created.