Page 10 of Born in Blood

“Bloodlust is fleeting but essential for all new vampires. Yours may have already passed. You showed a great deal of restraint when feeding on Lynette.”

He shrugs, attempting to brush off the compliment. “I was full.”

I regard him with curiosity. Axl Thorne is a beautiful paradox: brimming with an arrogance that befits his handsome good looks and chiseled physique. But he is unsure of the deeper parts of himself. Unsure of his true character, yet I see him clearly. He is a man deeply wounded by this world. To protect his fragile heart from further pain, he has built himself a suit of armor, fortified with conceit and disdain. Yet beneath the exterior he so crudely wears, he is loyal and steadfast and true. And thatis why he reminds me ofher.And that is why I turned him, and why I will seek my own brand of justice on the man who broke him as a boy.

Axl’s trepidationgrows stronger the closer we get to his childhood home, and by the time we reach the door of 26 Hopewell Street, he is wearing his anxiety like a thick cloak. He rings the bell, and a short, sturdy housekeeper with a ruddy complexion answers the door. That she offers him a kind smileupon seeing him may save her from the fate which is sure to meet her employers.

Axl glances at me nervously as the housekeeper, who answers to Alice, shows us to the parlor. It is a room that I suspect was once grand in its own way. Plump cushions, their upholstery now faded by sunlight, are nestled together on the couch beneath the window. Silverware, so highly polished that its ornate features are now mere memories of a pattern, adorns the mantel. And the ornate bronze statue of a wolf sits beside the fireplace, its mouth open in expectation.

“Alastair!” Alastair Thorne II stands to his full height upon seeing us enter the room, rolling back his shoulders and putting me in mind of a small bear who wants to make itself look more ferocious than it is. Gray hair peppers his dark locks, congregating at his temples and giving him the appearance of a receding hairline. The cold look of disgust on his face clearly communicates his disdain for his only surviving son, and it grows exponentially more apparent when his eyes rake over me.

“Who is this”—his lip curls in a sneer—“foreigner”—he practically spits out the word—“you bring intomyhouse.”

It is true that my olive skin and black hair are two things that make me stand out in London, but they are not the only things. I flick the tip of my tongue over my fangs, a reminder of the ways he is about to learn exactly howforeignI am.

Axl is hit with so many emotions at once that it takes all of my considerable skill not to let them affect me. Rage and disbelief are dominant, but the one that seems to hurt him most is shame.

You are not responsible for your father’s actions, Axl, I remind him silently through the bond we now share.

It is enough to allow him to find his voice. “This is my friend, Mr.…” He looks to me as he realizes he does not know my last name.

I offer it for him. “Drakos. Alexandros Drakos.”

That earns me only another sneer before he directs his attention back to his son. “What are you doing here?”

Axl inhales deeply. “I came to tell you and mother that I am leaving London.”

Alastair snorts, and then he glances at the woman sitting meekly in the chair in the darkest corner of the room: Margaret Thorne. I was aware of her presence as soon as I entered the room. Heartbeats are not easy to ignore, but she, as a person, is. Mousy brown hair, lips pressed together in a thin, disapproving line, slight of frame, and frail of mind. Weak in every way a person can be. “Then leave. For London will be better without you in it,” he says. The statement is followed up by a hearty laugh at, what he believes to be in any case, his own wit.

Axl’s nostrils flare, and he steps closer to his father. “Before I leave, I need to ask you a question.”

“I owe you nothing, swine.”

His father’s lip curls in disgust, but Axl presses on, undeterred, rolling back his shoulders and squaring up to the man who has tormented him his entire life. “Why did you kill Frederik?”

The question hangs in the air like a lit match dangling above a dry pile of kindling. His father’s face twists with confusion and hate. “How dare you accuse me!” His roar breaches Margaret’s stupor, making her flinch in her chair.

Axl inches closer still, his fists clenched by his sides and his entire body vibrating with the force of his long-suppressed rage. That a vampire so young is able to control his temper and thirst is admirable, and I feel an unexpected flash of pride in my choice for a companion. He was human a few short days ago, and whilst I am his sire, a remnant of his human parental bond remains. Patricide is a crime too heinous for most and, at the very least, not one to be committed upon a whim. “I know you did it.”

“Alastair.” Margaret’s weak voice travels across the room. “Your brother drowned in the lake.”

Axl turns his glare on her. “Then why didhe”—he jabs his finger into the chest of the man before him, the man who used to be his father—“have blood on his collar and cuffs? If Frederik simply drowned, where did the blood come from?” He is irate now, his teeth bared and his beast close to the surface. “And you know because you helped him burn his shirt in the fire.”

“How dare you!” Alastair raises his hand, about to bring the back of it crashing down over his son’s face. An act I suspect is so familiar within these walls that even the cherubs adorning almost every piece of art on the walls no longer blanch at the sight.

But Axl is too quick. Too strong. He catches his father’s wrist and squeezes hard, and the sounds of snapping bones and his father’s pained cries fill the room. He forces him to his knees and towers over him, shaking with vitriol. “Why did you kill Frederik?”

I am assaulted by images of a young boy with flaxen hair and smiling blue eyes, along with the sound of innocent, childish laughter as memories of his younger brother swim through Axl’s head.

“I did not kill him,” Alastair insists.

I take a few steps closer, pushing through the wall of Axl’s rage, and observe his father a little more closely. He cries, tears rolling down his cheeks. I am vaguely aware of Margaret crying too, pleading with her son to let his father go, but it is Alastair Thorne II that I am most interested in. He is hiding something, yet it appears, at least on the surface, that he truly believes the words coming from his mouth.

It is a strange and unique facet of the human condition that the mind is often unable to distinguish between reality and truth, and if a person can convince themselves of a lie—perhapsbecause the truth is too heinous to accept—then they will come to believe the falsehood as reality.

I cannot be sure if that is the case here, but I am sure of Axl Thorne. I have combed his memories and witnessed the cruelty the man on his knees has shown, as well as the coldness of his mother. He shakes his father, fingers tightening their grip until Alastair’s face turns an unnatural and mottled shade of purple.

I place a hand on Axl’s forearm, and he mellows at my touch. “He is unlikely to give you the truth you are searching for.” A tear runs down his face at this realization. “But I can dig out that truth for you.”

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