The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod: Twelfth Grade Kills (6 page)

Vlad tried hard to ignore that. Even though it stung, especially coming from his uncle.

He counted two heartbeats, then a third. After a deep breath, he met Otis’s eyes again, calm.

Well, mostly calm, anyway.

“We both drank his blood, in some manner. I drank his, you drank his son Adrian’s. What’s the difference? Because I really don’t see it. If it’s so bad that I did it, then you’re just as guilty.” He hadn’t raised his voice, not quite, but his tone was defiant. Otis was acting like he was ashamed of Vlad’s actions. But really, when it came down to it, crazy or not, Vlad was glad he drank from Dorian, glad that he honored a dying vampire’s final wish.

Even if it did make him hallucinate things that could not possibly be.

Otis’s face flushed pink, but only for a second. He tossed the wadded up map into the recycling bin. “I made a huge mistake, Vladimir. A drunken, stupid, imbecilic mistake born of pain and loss. I was mourning your father and blood-drunk and stupid enough to listen to Dorian. But you ... what were you thinking? You’re better than me-so much better than me. And now...”

Otis shook his head sadly. “His blood ... it taints people.”

“He told me to do it.” Vlad held his uncle’s gaze, determined. “And I trusted him. So I drank.”

Otis’s eyes widened in surprise. Something else lurked there too. Betrayal, maybe. Maybe regret. But Vlad wasn’t certain why. He knew that Otis hadn’t trusted Dorian and that Otis had wanted to protect Vlad from him, but he wasn’t at all certain he trusted his uncle’s motives. In fact, he was a bit concerned that maybe Otis had wanted him to stay away from Dorian to ensure that Vlad wouldn’t entertain any idea at all that he was the Pravus. After all, to this day Otis was still in denial about Vlad’s status. Maybe he was afraid of it. And if that were true, then maybe he was afraid of Vlad.

Otis sighed in frustration and defeat. “But why? Why did you listen to him? How could you trust Dorian?”

Vlad chose his words carefully and spoke them crisply so that Otis could not shut them out of his doubting, fearful mind. “Because he’s the Keeper of the Prophecy, Otis. And I’m the Subject of that prophecy.”

Otis turned away, throwing his arms up, muttering something in Elysian code that had to be a curse word. Henry winced at the sound of it, even though he—like Vlad—had no idea what Otis was saying. When Otis turned to Vlad, Otis began pacing back and forth across the room. “Who told you that? Who told you those words? Who told you that there was such a thing as a Keeper and a Subject?”

Vlad wet his lips and tried hard to keep his voice calm, even though it sure felt like Otis was trying to fight with him. “Dorian did.”

“And you believed him.”

It wasn’t a question, but Vlad offered a single nod in response.

Otis stopped pacing and shook his head slowly, sadly—as if he’d failed at saving his nephew from something truly frightening. He placed his palms on the table, closed his eyes, and simply breathed deeply for several minutes before speaking again.

The silence was deafening, and droned on for what seemed like an eternity.

“Have you experienced any ... strange effects ... since feeding from him?”

“Only if you count seeing my dead father.” Vlad sighed, his eyes flicking to Henry and back to his uncle. “Dorian said I could know the prophecy if I drank from him. That’s why I did it, Otis. Because he said that it was his job as the Keeper of the Prophecy to deliver the prophecy to me, and that the only way to do it was for me to feed from him. The prophecy ... it’s in his blood. Or was. Now it’s in mine.”

Otis released a sharp, disbelieving breath—one that immediately filled Vlad with shame. “And have you complete knowledge of this so-called prophecy now, Vladimir?”

Vlad’s heart slid up into his throat.

Otis didn’t believe him.

He swallowed hard and met his uncle’s gaze, certainty and confidence filling him to the brim. “Otis, I’ve
seen
the prophecy, and whether you believe me or not, it doesn’t matter. It’s real. As real as the blood in my veins.”

Henry had finally finished his sandwich and joined the conversation with something Vlad had expected to come from Otis’s mouth. “What if Dorian was lying?”

“He was not lying.” Vikas’s voice rumbled into the room as he entered. “Dorian was mad, this is true, but he was an honest man. An honest madman. And I happen to know for a fact that he did indeed carry the prophecy in his veins.”

Vlad
really
looked at Vikas for the first time since he’d drank from Dorian. His voice was quiet, and tinged with a strange sense of disbelief. “You were there that night. You killed those men—the Foreteller and Transcriber—once Dorian knew the prophecy.”

Vikas offered a single nod. “That I did, Mahlyenki Dyavol, as it was to be Dorian’s task, but the boy was too weak, and far too gentle to commit such an act. As twisted as his mind was, it was only out of reaction to all that he had been faced with. I rather liked Dorian and was sad to hear of his passing. Apart from his madness, he was a kindly vampire.”

Vlad nodded in agreement, relieved to learn that he wasn’t the only one who’d come to understand Dorian, to like him. Otis was staring at them both as if they’d lost their minds, but he didn’t speak.

Vikas stepped closer, his smile warm. “Have you had any visions, Mahlyenki Dyavol?”

Vlad sighed. In fact, he had. Right after drinking Dorian’s blood, he’d had a vision of himself ruling over vampirekind and enslaving the human race. But admitting that was admitting that he would one day soon be the evil thing the prophecy had foretold. So he lied. “No. Nothing yet.”

Vikas sighed and patted Vlad on the shoulder. His eyes sparkled with encouragement and support—nothing like what Otis had been offering. “Perhaps with time.”

Changing the subject to a more comfortable one, Otis said, “Any luck with your search for Tomas, Vikas? We haven’t had much luck here in town at all.”

Vikas shook his head and took a seat at the long plank table, eyeing a bottle of bloodwine. “No luck as of yet, my old friend. Dyavol is nowhere to be found. For a moment I thought I found a trace, but the trail has gone dead, it seems.”

Vlad’s eyes shot to meet Vikas’s, hurt and anger warring inside them.

Dead.

How could he use that word?

Vikas clucked his tongue and flashed him an apologetic glance. “Forgive me, Vladimir. I have forgotten my candor. I am a fool.”

Vlad sank back in his seat. “You may not be the only one, Vikas. If I don’t find my dad soon ... then maybe Otis is right. Maybe I am crazy.”

They all looked at Vlad then, wordlessly, as if gauging his sanity level. After a moment, Vlad stood and headed for the front door, Henry in tow behind him.

Otis stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Quietly, he said, “Whatever you decide to do, we will support you. If you decide to run, we’re prepared for whatever comes. But please, tell us before you go so that I can make arrangements to hide Nelly from Elysia.”

Vlad cringed at the very idea of bringing down Elysia’s brand of justice on his family, his friends, but he met Otis’s eyes and nodded. Then he was out the door. He had a lot to think about, and there was only one place to do it. With a brief goodbye to Henry once they were outside, Vlad was on his way to the only place he could truly be alone to think.

The belfry. His sanctuary. The only place in the world he felt safe.

Vlad moved through Bathory effortlessly, his mind clouded with troubled thoughts. A slight breeze danced through the air, bringing a bit of cool to the lingering summer heat. He was grateful for it. Too much of his summer had been spent outdoors, in the sticky heat. So he slowed his steps and allowed himself a moment to enjoy his walk—something he hadn’t done in months.

Once he reached the school, he floated effortlessly to the arched windows of the belfry and stepped inside.

Only...

The room wasn’t dark.

The room wasn’t empty.

Vlad wasn’t alone.

A candle was lit on the small table beside his father’s chair, illuminating the space with a flickering warmth. The photograph of his father was no longer in its space on the wall.

It was being cradled by hands.

Familiar hands.

Hands that had caught Vlad when he fell off the roof. Hands that had bandaged his elbow when he tumbled from his bike. Hands that he knew well.

Tomas Tod was sitting in his chair, holding his framed photograph, looking up at Vlad with an expectant, albeit worried, smile. “Vladimir.” He breathed, standing. “Son. It’s been too long, and this meeting is overdue.”

H
IS DAD.

Alive and in the flesh and standing less than ten feet in front of him.

Which meant Vlad really was crazy. After all, he only seemed to see his dad when no one else was around, and all other evidence pointed to no additional vampires being in Bathory. Even now, he couldn’t sense Tomas’s presence when he reached out with his blood. It was as if his father wasn’t really there.

Vlad was insane. He was off his rocker, for sure.

“No, you’re not, Vlad. You’re perfectly sane, I assure you.” Tomas—the man who looked like Tomas, anyway—shook his head. He set the photograph down on the table next to the candle and met Vlad’s eyes, his gaze pleading. “Trust me. The reason you can’t detect me by reaching out with your blood is because I burned my Mark away. I’m not surprised Otis or Vikas didn’t realize that would be an effect of having removed my Mark, as so few vampires have survived the task. Doing so hasn’t seemed to harm my abilities, though. Telepathy, speed, mind control—all intact, it seems. I suppose I should count my blessings.”

Vlad jolted at the sound of that voice. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. Either it was his father, or his imagination was brilliantly creative.

They watched one another for a moment but as Vlad started to speak, Tomas held up a hand, his eyes kind, sympathetic, full of an immense, overwhelming guilt. “As for my disappearance ... son, I owe you an explanation—”

As the words began to leave Tomas’s lips, Vlad’s eyes snapped to him in a glare. “You owe me a hell of a lot more than that. If you’re real, that is.”

Tomas lowered his eyes apologetically, “Indeed. And I’d meant to come forward sooner. But I had to wait until I was certain we’d be alone. I am being hunted, as it were.”

Vlad tightened his jaw, his heart racing—racing with fear and panic and upset and doubt and something else too. Anger. Immense and immediate anger.

Through clenched teeth, he growled, “I don’t give a damn if you’re being hunted. I don’t care if the entire Slayer Society is on your heels and all of Elysia is thirsting for your blood. All I care about is where you’ve been for the last eight years. What happened the day of the fire. What happened to you, what happened to Mom, and why. And you’re going to explain everything to me. But first ... before you say another word, before you refer to me as your son again, before you take another breath ... prove to me that you’re really my dad. Prove to me that you’re really ... here.”

Tomas nodded and furrowed his brow, his features almost too similar to what Vlad saw in the mirror every day. After a moment, his apparent distress eased some—if only a little, and he met Vlad’s guarded eyes. “Did you get my note? The one I scribbled in the margins of the
Compendium of Conscientia
, directing you to my journal?”

That was something only Tomas would know. But it was also something only Vlad would know, so he still had no real evidence whether or not the man he saw before him was flesh and blood, let alone his father.

He couldn’t trust his possibly poisoned mind.

Not one bit.

Vlad stood there, looking at the man who’d created him, the man who’d taught him to read, who’d been there for him every day until a fire had torn them apart. Let the madness take him. At least he’d see his father again. At least he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

His bitter anger remained, but it was instantly overshadowed by a mingling of both immense relief and dire need.

Need for family. Need for his dad.

Without warning, he grabbed his dad and gripped him tightly in an embrace. His dad was warm, solid, real. He was back. His dad was back. Somehow, against all the odds and everything that Vlad had understood to be reality, somehow his dad was back from the dead.

And if he wasn’t, Vlad didn’t want to know.

If he was crazy, Vlad wanted very much to stay that way, to enjoy every single moment of his insanity.

Tomas hesitated—as if taken aback for a moment—then put his arms around his son. He breathed words into Vlad’s hair, words that Vlad very much needed to hear. “It’s all right now, Vlad. Everything is going to be all right. I’m here now And I can explain everything.”

V
LAD SAT ON THE COUCH, but he couldn’t sit still, no matter how he hard he tried. So instead, he stood and paced some back and forth across the living room of his old house—Otis’s current house—his eyes expectantly on his father the entire time.

They’d left the belfry at Vlad’s insistence and after an argument—Tomas had been reluctant to go somewhere he might be seen by someone other than his son. But Vlad had dug his heels in. If he was going to hear details of his mother’s death and his father’s miraculous escape, he wanted to hear them where it all happened, in the place where his life had taken a dramatic, downward turn.

Home.

He was waiting for answers, answers that his dad had assured him were coming once they got there. And the waiting was killing him.

He’d lived for years not knowing what had transpired the day of the fire. Now he would know. Now he would know everything.

Tomas looked about the room, his eyes somewhat troubled by what he saw. “I see Otis redecorated.”