~ Gray ~

The crack of wood on wood rang out with increasing rapidity. In a wide, circular clearing amongst the trees, Gray and his two elder brothers took turns sparring with long staves while their father looked on as judge. 

Such training had been a part of his life since he was old enough to grasp a weapon, and he moved with the ease of long practice.

Parry, thrust, side-step, swipe, block, spin, strike.

He and his brothers fought with a blend of techniques taken from several styles of martial art. His father claimed it made them less predictable: able to adapt to any opponent—no matter who, or what, they might be. No master of any traditional school would recognize theirs, but they weren't out to win tournaments.

They were out to kill, and the only prize, his father said, was to survive.

To this end, Maurice d'Argent made sure his sons understood the consequences of losing a fight.

"Feet, Constant!" he bellowed in French. "Watch your feet!"

Renard, the middle brother, heard this warning, too, and immediately dropped to a crouch, swinging his staff in a wide arc aimed at Gray's ankles.

Timing his jump perfectly, Gray leapt high, and the staff whooshed harmlessly through the air beneath him.

He was a natural fighter. Not as strong as Jean, nor as vicious as Renard, but he understood the underlying principles of the art better than either: motion and force, weight and balance, and how each could be weapons and defenses of their own. Most of all, he understood the secret to his own style of success: be fast, and don't get hit.

It didn't always work. Jean was a juggernaut, and could bear many blows while one of his would lay an opponent low. Renard, by contrast, was an opportunist: the only rule that counted in his game was 'don't lose.' He fought dirty, targeted weaknesses, and was adept at spotting them.

Maurice pitted the three against each other, pushing and testing them, and often—as he did now—offering an advantage to one or another as he saw fit. Usually, to whomever was fighting Gray.

"Staff up, Constant!" he shouted again. "Guard your head!"

As Renard shifted his stance, a gleam of triumph in his eyes, Gray understood his father's intent: Renard's next attack would not be aimed at Gray's head.

Rather than guard his head, then, Gray swept his staff behind him, using the momentum to lift himself into a backward spin as his brother's weapon whistled once more beneath his feet. Landing, he brought the end up below his opponent's chin, stopping just short of actually cracking it against his jaw.

The fight was over.

"Yield," Gray panted, as silence settled between the encircling trees.

Renard glared up at him. He'd been caught mid-move and knelt awkwardly on one knee.

Maurice approached.

"Only the weak show mercy, Constant," he said. "Renard has lost, and the price of defeat is pain. Deliver it."

Gray looked down at his brother. He had no love for him, and knew Renard would not hesitate in his place—never did, in fact. But the face he saw staring up at him did not belong to Renard.

Instead of his brother's dark eyes and thick brows, he saw eyes of clear gray, wide and guileless; lovely, and impossibly innocent.

Would he find himself like this, someday? Standing over a strange, unworldly boy, with death in his hands, bound by filial duty to deliver it?

He couldn't even pretend.

Lowering his staff, he stepped back, giving his brother a sharp nod. "The shame of defeat is pain enough."

His father's staff caught him behind the knees, laying him flat on his back, the hard ground knocking the breath from his lungs.

"If you will not claim victory," Maurice d'Argent growled, "then you merely postpone defeat. Silverbloods do not know mercy. Think of that while you heal."

Raising his staff, he brought it down hard on Gray's shoulder, breaking the collarbone with a crack. Gray gasped with pain, but otherwise made no sound. To cry out would only invite more punishment.

His father looked down on him with contempt.

"Jean, Renard," he nodded at them, "gather your things and meet me at the house. There is a matter we must discuss."

Leaving him to pick himself up, they departed.

Gray lay for a long time without moving, letting agony radiate through his shoulder and chest, his hair growing damp with sweat. And, when he was absolutely certain he was alone, he allowed himself to cry.

For both their sakes, he must never speak to Fenn Dayraven again.

~

The following week, arriving at school with his arm in a sling, Gray did his best to ignore the boy. He turned away when Fenn greeted him with a shy smile, and refused to even look at him in English class. But when class ended, and Gray grabbed his pack and bolted for the door at the first sound of the bell, Fenn followed, catching at his jacket with slim fingers tipped with glittery pink nails, which just peeked beyond the sleeves of his over-sized sweater (a new one, it seemed).

"Gray, please wait—please?"

His soft, slightly lisping accent caught at Gray's ears just as the boy's fingers did his clothes. And, when he turned, intending to speak some harsh words for his own good, a pair of crystal gray eyes and pretty, parted lips caught at the rest of him.

"We cannot be friends," he said, though not roughly; he was merely stating a fact.

Fenn let him go and took a step back, the hurt on his face more painful to Gray than the ache in his shoulder.

"Because of what I am?" he asked.

Gray shook his head. "Because of what I am. You saw me in town. You know what my family are."

"Les Sang-d'Argent," Fenn whispered.

Gray's eyes went wide. "How...?"

"Please, Gray." Fenn reached for him again, tentatively grasping at his sleeve. "Please—I must speak with you. It is very important."

Gray considered. "All right. Skip P.E. Meet me in the auditorium. It is usually empty that time of day."

Fenn's eyes fixed on the sling cradling Gray's left arm.

"You are hurt again," he stated, his fine brows pinching with concern.

Gray nodded. The boy needed to understand. "If this is how my family treats its own, how do you think we treat our enemies?"

"Are we enemies?" Fenn asked softly, looking up to meet his eyes.

They were clear as water and dew-bright, and Gray couldn't lie to them. "Not by choice," he said.

Fenn let his hand drop and lowered his gaze. "I will see you later, then, Constant Gray," he whispered.

~

It was dark and cool in the auditorium. Gray often came here during free periods or when he skipped class. It was quiet, and he liked the dusty scents of old cloth and wood, and the silence of the empty seats.

Fenn stepped from the shadows near the stage as he approached, and—Gray noted with displeasure—he wasn't alone. The boy he'd been with in town, Dennis McCleary, stood at his side, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

"What is he doing here?" Gray asked, indicating Dennis.

"I'm here to protect Fenn," Dennis said, answering for himself. "We know what you are, vampire hunter."

He spat the last two words as if they were a great insult, and Gray smiled. He didn't know the least of it, and the idea of this earnest youth protecting Fenn from anything was laughable—like a Labrador puppy defending a wolf.

"I am injured," Gray pointed out. "Not much of a threat at the moment, you might say."

Dennis' expression lost none of its wariness, as though he expected Gray to produce a weapon from within his sling, and he sidled an inch closer to Fenn. Gray reassessed his opinion, slightly; perhaps the pup was not as dumb as he looked.

Fenn, though, walked right up to him.

"Gray," he said softly, keeping his hands twisted behind his back, as though to stop himself from reaching out and touching him. "Please—I am not a bad vampire, I promise. Not like in the movies, or in Dennis' 'manga' books. I've never even bitten anyone."

"But you drink blood to live."

"Yes," Fenn whispered, lowering his gaze to Gray's boots.

"And the men you live with—they are vampires as well?"

"No. Only one. Ari is...something else."

"How long ago were you turned?"

"I was born before Shakespeare died."

"That's a lot of blood."

"It's not his fault," Dennis cut in angrily. "If you just give him a chance to explain—"

"That is why we are here, is it not?" Gray interrupted. "So, explain."

Half an hour later, Gray understood quite a few things, some of which Fenn had told him, and some of which he had inferred.

The three boys sat in an uneven triangle on a corner of the stage, and Fenn drew pictures in the dust on the well-worn boards with his finger as he spoke. Dennis stayed protectively (annoyingly, Gray thought) close to him, and often touched him or held his hand. Now and then, Fenn paused and fell silent for a minute or so, seeming to struggle with the words to tell his tale. Somehow, both Dennis and Gray sensed it was best to wait, and give him time to get through the difficult bits; and at last, he came to the end.

"So," he asked, looking up to meet Gray's eyes. "Does it sound like them? Ari and Soren, I mean. What your family came here to hunt?"

Gray shook his head, and made no effort to hide his relief. "No. Your 'Ari' sounds like something similar, but from what you tell me, he has already realized the fullness of his potential. What my father says we hunt is 'a rising darkness'; a nascent power, something not yet come into being."

"Then...we must find it first," Fenn said with surprising firmness.

Dennis looked up, startled, but Gray nodded.

"I agree. Your family and mine must never meet, and if these reconnaissants find us, I fear there will be blood shed on both sides. Although," he smiled grimly, "I would like to see the look on my father's face if he learned he had spent the past decade living under the watchful eye of this vampire 'Beaumort.'"

"Wait wait wait—" Dennis held up his hands. "So we're seriously gonna try 'an find the thing that ripped Ryan and his buds to shreds?"

"No. We're going to find the thing that summoned the things that did that," Gray answered.

"And then what?"

"Then, it depends. If whatever 'it' is turns out to be something like...your family," Gray said, looking at Fenn, "then we warn it, or them, and hope they leave the area. If it is something...bad...then I inform my family, and we...deal with it." He shrugged. "Once it is gone, either way, my father will move on to some other target—some other place."

Gray heard the weariness in his own voice, and it was more than the voice of someone his age ought to carry.

Dennis frowned. "Okay, but like, how we gonna do that? I mean, Fenn's an awesome vampire, and you're some kinda Dean Winchester knockoff. What does that make me?"

"Bait," Gray answered evenly.

Dennis scowled, but Fenn giggled—a light sound that lanced Gray's heart like rays of sunlight lancing through a cloud.

"You've been targeted once already," Gray continued, doing his best to ignore how pretty Fenn looked when he smiled. "It is possible—likely, even—that you will be targeted again. If, or when, that happens, we must be ready."

Dennis' face lost a few shades of color, and he glanced at Fenn. "So much for me protecting you, huh?"

"I feel very safe with you, Dennis," Fenn said, and smiled again.

Dennis' cheeks regained their color, and then Fenn turned to Gray.

"We are not...friends, but...allies, then?" he asked, his clear, expressive eyes bright with hope.

Gray knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't bear to see that hope extinguished.

"Yes," he agreed. "Allies."

Fenn smiled, a faint blush lighting his cheeks, and something warm and soft slipped right through the cracks in Gray's defenses and made itself at home. And as he looked at the ageless boy, he understood: this was not a fight he would win. He could only hope his father was wrong, and that the price of defeat must not always be pain.