~ Gray ~

His father's reply had not surprised him, but the vampire had seemed genuinely perplexed.

The two of them had gone down to the Barrier's edge, where the road crossed a little bridge, thinking to meet the rest of the Silverbloods there, but only a delivery van had appeared.

The driver had looked between them—from Beaumort's fine clothes and wild hair, to the manacles still locked about Gray's wrists—and Gray had feared the vampire would 'shoot the messenger' simply to avoid a fuss. Taking advantage of the fact he still wore his costume from the night before, he'd smiled at the man and shrugged.

"We're LARPers," he'd said. "Sorry."

The man's expression cleared, if only a little. It seemed that people role-playing some kind of hostage fantasy in the woods was only slightly less alarming than organized crime, or whatever it was he had imagined.

So, he handed Beaumort an envelope and went away, and Beaumort opened it and stood a long time, absorbed with what it contained.

He stood so long, in fact, that when he handed the letter to Gray, he'd been surprised to see it held only a few lines.

Kill him; he is not my son.

And below that:

At moonrise, Death comes with silvered blades.

A less reserved youth would have rolled his eyes at his father's baroque dramatics, but Gray merely frowned. Then Beaumort had handed him the other thing the envelope had held, and understanding dawned upon him with a blood-cooling chill.

It must have been Renard, he thought. He was the spy. At least he'd only looked through a telephoto lens, and not a rifle's scope, this time; though that would have been next, once his father had seen the evidence.

He realized, with a little shock, that he had been very lucky to have been taken captive with his friends. If he had gone home, and been present when Renard confronted his father with this evidence, his brothers would be tossing the last shovelfuls of dirt on his grave by now.

"Well, mon petit Sang d'Argent," Beaumort had mused, "what am I to do with you, eh? I am not about to do your father any favors. I suppose I must keep you, now."

Then they had returned to the house and discovered that Fenn and the others had escaped, though no one could determine how.

Gray's spirits had lifted at this, but Beaumort had flown into a rage, swearing and hurling a glass at someone's head.

"Putain de merde! Can I rely on no-one to do as I expect?"

Gray had feared the vampire's wrath would fall on him next, and braced himself for violence, but after a few breaths, the man grew calm, sat heavily on the larger sofa, and fell into a state of deep thought.

A quarter-hour later, he had risen, gone into a room that seemed to be an office, come back with a sheaf of paper and a pen, and written a letter of his own, which he pinned to the table with a small knife. Then, to Gray's surprise, he'd called his men before him and addressed them as a captain might his crew, and told them to go home.

Some resisted or expressed regret, but Beaumort insisted that the fight was now his alone.

"If fate permits, I will rejoin you," he said in French. "If not, another worthy one will rise in my place. Until then, au revoir."

They departed; and then Beaumort had taken the last remaining vehicle—a small, dark sedan—and driven back towards town with Gray, whom he blindfolded with his tie.

Some miles short of the town's edge, he'd left the main road and turned onto a rough, unpaved lane. At the end of this, he stopped and removed the tie from about Gray's eyes, revealing they'd arrived at a run-down old house with peeling panels and a broken door. Apparently, some of Beaumort's people had been staying here for the last month or so. Inside, the vampire chained Gray to the iron frame of a large bed, and then he left him alone.

Hungry, tired, and wondering what lay in store for him now, Gray fell asleep on the bare, dirty mattress, and dreamed of the strange, beautiful boy who had saved his life as surely as he'd ended it.

~ ❀ ~

He knew he was dreaming as soon as he opened his eyes. He lay beneath a towering oak, its branches aflame with autumn foliage, and his head rested in Fenn's lap. Beneath him, a carpet of emerald mosses spread, while overhead stretched an azure sky.

Fenn smiled down at him, little fangs showing at the corners of lips. His hair was long and loose, glossy as a raven's wing, and he wore a gown-like robe of midnight blue, which sparkled with jewels like tiny stars.

"Gray. You are well?" Fenn asked.

"I am unharmed, as yet," he answered, sitting up. "You?"

"We are safe."

He saw that they were not alone. The other boy—no, their other friend—Dennis, stood a short way off, his hands outstretched as he tried to catch the leaves that fell about him in a flame-colored swirl.

"Where are we?" Gray asked.

"A memory," Fenn said. "Something of yours."

Gray frowned; the place was unfamiliar. Then it came to him: a long time ago, when he was very small.

His father had left him alone in a park for an afternoon, while he'd taken his brothers 'hunting' nearby. There were other parents with children about, but they'd all assumed he must belong to someone else, and left him in peace.

Peace and freedom, for an afternoon—a first, rare taste. Time had embellished the memory—the park had not been quite so glorious, he was sure—but the grass had never seemed greener, or the sky bluer, than it had that day.

He'd seldom recaptured that feeling; perhaps never had again until he met Fenn.

Fenn, whose strange and gentle soul soothed his, and made him feel whole.

"Will I see you again?" he wondered aloud, looking up at him.

Fenn stroked his hair, the sensation as real as it would be in the waking world. "We've found Beaumort's letter," he said. "Where has he taken you?"

"A house. I'm not sure where. He blindfolded me."

"Can you show me?"

"How?"

"Just remember what you can."

Gray shut his eyes again and focused on what he'd seen—the house, and the narrow lane.

"Good," Fenn said. "That shouldn't be too hard to find."

Gray frowned and reached up to touch Fenn's hair and the side of his face. "You shouldn't come here," he said. "My father's note—"

As he spoke, a new thought rose in his mind, as alarming as a predator emerging from the shadows where it had stood all along in perfect camouflage.

The note was not meant for Fenn's family; it was for Beaumort alone.

"Fenn, my father won't attack the Stronghold tonight," Gray said, catching Fenn's hands in his. "Stay there. Stay safe. And if we do not meet again..."

Fenn frowned at him. "But Beaumort said..."

Then his clear gray eyes widened as he, too, understood.

"Please, don't come here," Gray insisted. "Whatever Beaumort intends, I don't think he means for either himself or any Silverblood to see another dawn. I—"

Fenn leaned down and took his face in his hands, and kissed him between the eyes. "I will find you," he whispered, "because I love you, Constant Gray."

And then, with a painful mix of happiness and dread, the dream ended, and he awoke.

~ ❀ ~

A mix of unpleasant sensations greeted his returning consciousness: the scent of dust and mildew, the chill of having slept with no covering, and the aches that came of lying in one position for too long. Most unpleasant was the feeling of being watched.

The vampire stood at the foot of the bed, a thoughtful frown on his full mouth and his dark eyes shining with a cold gleam.

"Welcome back, my dear. Did your dream-bird find you, then? You understand why I bound your eyes, now, I think."

Gray returned his frown.

"What do you want with me?" he asked. "You know my father will attack you here. If you won't kill me, then let me go."

Beaumort clenched his jaw and looked away. He crossed the room and stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his broad back. "You will find this difficult to believe, I am sure," he said, "but I would release you, if I could. Unfortunately, it is not something I can do."

"Why not? Unchain me, and I—"

"You do not understand," the vampire interrupted. "I have tried to forget—tried to let them go, to let my anger die, and to forgive. I cannot."

He turned back to face Gray, fixing him with an intense look.

"When I shut my eyes, I see them still: my beautiful Hélène and my little girl—ma petite ange. I am not a good man, mon cher, though I have imitated one from time to time, but they were truly blameless souls. I cannot rest while the one who destroyed them goes unpunished."

His eyes traveled Gray's form, and he sighed.

"I felt certain the treasure of a man's heart must be his youngest and most promising son; that despite what my informants told me, the loss of you would teach him sorrow."

He shook his head and rubbed at his jaw.

"It seems it is not so; he would rather see you dead than free. So, I will give him that, instead. He will die knowing you will live—for as long as choice and fate permit—as the very thing he exists to destroy."

Gray's breath stilled. "You can't turn me," he whispered, wide-eyed with renewed alarm. "Silverblood is—"

"Poisonous?" Beaumort raised a thick black brow at him. "Yes, but less effective the more potent the victim's own blood. When your grandfather poisoned me, I was a master—yes—but a hotheaded, young master, nonetheless. Why do you imagine I've played such a long game, dear boy? I have not been idle, and have honed my power with a single purpose in mind, though I thought it would be your father whose blood I drank: the ultimate defeat for him, such a death."

"But it takes too long!" Gray gasped, as fear zipped along his nerves. "You can't turn me in just a few hours' time."

"No, perhaps not—but I can begin the process, to the point where it is irreversible. That is all I need your father to see."

He came towards him and sat on the edge of the dirty mattress, and Gray pulled away involuntarily, the chains at his wrists clinking with the futile effort.

"I will not ask you to forgive me," Beaumort said, almost softly, and with a trace of genuine regret, "for I know that what I am about to do is unforgivable."

Gray shut his eyes as the vampire reached for him and let his single, long fang extend.