Blood Memories

"Climb up and get me!" Philip called from a low branch, knowing John was no climber.

"You can't stay up there forever. Might as well come down now and let me break that foot."

"I think not." Philip's mind switched focus so quickly he often frustrated people. "Let's go into town. I'm hungry."

"How could you possibly be hungry? You fed last night."

Philip dropped to the ground. "I'll race you."

"No, if you really want to go that far, we should saddle the horses."

"All right, but my horse is faster than yours."

Wrestling match forgotten, they were soon flying through the icy air down the road toward Harfleur proper. Angelo's winter home stood four miles away from the city, giving him easy access without being too close. The muscles of Philip's horse felt solid yet fluid beneath his knees. He liked his bay mare, Kayli. The trip from Gascony would have been lonely without her. He didn't function well without company.

"Slow down," John called.

Reining Kayli down to a walk, Philip swiveled his head back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's still early and a crisp night. I thought we might talk awhile."

"Talk?"

Their horses fell into step along the snow-packed road. "I was just watching you ride," John said. "Strange how you remember things like riding and where to grow the best grapes, how to speak both French and English, yet you don't recall anything of your mortal life."

Philip shifted in his saddle, bored already. "That's old hat."

"You couldn't even speak at first, not at all. Frightened Angelo pale. You were like a newborn babe. Did you know I met you once, before he turned you?"

"You did?" Philip was suddenly interested. "What was I like?"

"Different than you are now. Almost timid. The idea of filling your father's shoes as marquis seemed a death sentence. When Angelo offered you a way out, you jumped on it."

"Angelo asked me?"

"Of course he did. It was Julian's idea. Angelo wanted three sons, you know."

Philip did know. In fact, he knew more than his brothers suspected. Not that they would have minded; they simply viewed him as mentally deficient. John had been turned in 1801, Julian in 1818, both emerging into the undead world exactly as Angelo wanted them.

But Philip woke up in darkness, unable to communicate, yet terrified to be alone for fear that without someone else in the room to prove his existence, he might disappear. Then Angelo showed him how to hunt, and he found purpose. Language came back to him slowly, and the memory of a face, ivory with brown eyes and chocolate hair.

"Why did you turn Edward?" Philip asked suddenly.

"To see if I could," John answered. "And because he's the right type."

"Did Angelo mind?"

"No."

"Then why was he so angry when I turned Maggie?"

"Because you were too young and incapable of teaching her. And you might have damaged yourself. You aren't like the rest of us, you know." John's broad face clouded slightly. "Promise not to laugh if I tell you something?"

"I'd never laugh, just kick you in the face."

"No… listen. I've been having dreams lately."

"Dreams? Have you told Angelo?"

"No, but they might not be dreams, more like premonitions. Something dark hides on the edge of my vision. I can almost see it, but not quite."

The switch in topics disturbed Philip. John shouldn't be discussing this with him. He knew nothing of dreams or visions. And anyway, this psychic nonsense bored him beyond words. They ought to race again.

"Something is coming," John said with his eyes fixed on empty space. "I don't know what, and I can't stop it. But it is coming."

Too much. Philip kneed Kayli into motion. She leapt forward, kicking up small clods of loose snow. A second later, he heard John coming up behind, and he smiled into the wind.

At the Wayside Inn, Philip reveled in the scent of pipe smoke along with the pleasant aroma of warmth and life. A human smorgasbord to choose from. After they had stabled their horses, John's dark mood passed away, leaving his usual good-natured self in its wake.

Indoor hunting was best for winter nights. Inns like the Wayside teemed with customers who sought out company, wine, and hot food. Round barmaids with reddened cheeks maneuvered trays of cups and tin plates among sweat-scented bodies and laughing faces.

"This is a fine tavern," John commented. "See the woodwork on that door?" He leaned back in contentment. "I like the scents and the wine and the way everyone tolerates each other because there's nowhere else to go in this weather."

Philip nodded. "Good hunting."

"Oh, will you look around?" John said. "Listen with your mind. Most of these people haven't two francs to their name, and everyone's still excited about Christmas."

"What is that?"

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"It's a celebration, a religious holiday. Perhaps your family didn't practice such things. I wouldn't be surprised. Your father is the coldest man I've ever met."

"My father?"