Page 112 of Black Curtain

The human version of the vampire king looked around the room.

Following his stare, for the first time, Nick took in the room, as well.

It was like a tomb.

Or maybe something closer to a dark church.

Bare walls, painted black. Wood-shuttered windows, also painted to keep out any hint of light. The dark floor with its white chalk and unnerving symbols. Nick had never really believed in “magic” per se, not before now. That hadn’t changed especially since finding out seers and humans existed, or even when Black turned into a dragon, or Miri vanished and reappeared without warning.

Without thinking that part out loud specifically and consciously, some part of Nick still assumed there had to be a scientific explanation for most things. Some of those explanations might be weird, yeah. Some might bewoo-wooor metaphysical on some level.

But they weren’t reallymagic.

They weren’t magic like the stuff that scared Angel when she was a kid.

Angel told Nick stories back when they were in high school, about rituals she’d seen, things she’d heard about back in Louisiana. She described in great detail the books and herbs of the “aunt” who still believed in the “old version” of the family religion. That same aunt believed her pet crow was some kind of messenger from another world, that she could raise zombies from the dead, summon vampires, call on avenging spirits to take flesh from her enemies.

A lot of it, Nick figured was probably no weirder than any other religion.

There might be more dead chickens and more dead goats involved, enough to scare a little kid who didn’t have any way to put those things in a cultural context, but the weirdness factor was likely the same.

After all, Christianity had been a blood sport over the years too.

Pretty much all religions were.

He did wonder about the vampire part though.

Now, anyway.

From next to him, the son spoke.

Hearing the human version of that familiar voice, Nick about jumped out of his skin.

“God raining hellfire… what are youdoing,mother? Are you trying to get all of us killed? Do you have any sanity remaining in you at all?”

Nick, Dex, and Kiko all stared at him.

His blue eyes fixed only on the bloody scythe in the middle of her circle drawing, framed there like some kind of twisted centerpiece. Armel’s full lip curled, his face darkened with dirt and five o’clock shadow. His muscular form drew up, staring down at her with a mixture of pity, frustration, fear, disgust, and what looked like resignation.

Nick couldn’t tear his eyes off his sire’s human face.

He couldn’t help but stare at him like this.

Nick guessed his age at twenty-one, twenty-two.

He could be as young as nineteen, if he’d matured quickly through hard work or just genetics. He could be as old as twenty-eight.

Sweat made his forehead shine, even in the middle of the night. It stuck pieces and strands of Brick’s thick auburn hair to the sides of his cheeks and neck where it had escaped his ponytail. He wore what looked like farmer’s clothes, maybe of higher quality than most, but definitely clothing that had seen a lot of outdoor activity.

Those clothes were stained and torn and smeared with dirt and grass.

Nick saw and smelled blood there, too.

Nick imagined he smelled his sire’s human smell, but knew if he did, it must be vastly muted. Standing this close to the obviously ripe human, Nick’s senses would be bombarded by sweat and blood, cow shit and mud, pipe smoke and whatever else.

He remembered that the woman had said her son was “off fighting.”

It hit him suddenly, what she meant.

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