Victor draws back and studies the determination in my eyes. Tenderly he brushes back my hair. “So, that’s three stakes, right?”
“And make sure they’re sharp!”
A black car sits ominously outside the building. Leaning against it are several of our friends.
“About time,” Michael says, a black duffel bag in his hand. He shakes it, and I can hear the metal stakes.
“I’ll drive first,” Richard says, his elbows on the roof of the driver’s side. “We’ll need a speed demon if we’re to get there in time, and frankly, Victor, you drive like my grandmother.”
“This will get us there and back, with plenty to spare,” Ian says, loading four orange gas canisters into the trunk.
Rachel is there, a big bag in her hands. “Now, I’ve packed all of you lunches. Let’s see, there’s turkey sandwiches, roast beef, um . . . what else? Ooh, I’ve got a few slices of pie. . . .”
As she rattles off the rest, I slap myself out of the shock I feel and look up at Victor. He appears as surprised as I am: stunned at our gathering of friends and allies.
Faith is standing beside Richard. I wish I had vampire ears to hear what they’re saying to each other. Or maybe not; they deserve their privacy. But my human eyes catch Faith trying to wipe away a tear without anyone noticing. Hundreds of years of practice and still not sly enough for me.
Tegan is holding Michael’s hand, and he reaches down and gives her a quick brush over the lips. I’m so glad they have each other.
“Everything looks good,” Jeff says, shutting the hood of the car. “Just go easy on the brakes, all right?”
I’m grateful Jeff isn’t suited up to go with us. The city needs him now more than ever. And as he rejoins Rachel, I can’t help noticing his hand lying gently on her stomach. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means everything.
Faith walks over to Victor. “I want to go, but . . .”
“A Valentine needs to be here in case things don’t go well,” Victor finishes for her.
She nods, swipes at another tear. “Just make sure things go well.”
He hugs her hard. “You’re a great sister.”
“You’re an okay brother.”
Laughing, Victor leans back and she turns to me. “Don’t let anything happen to him.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
Richard gives us our boarding call. “Let’s go, guys, plenty of night left.”
Victor, Michael, and I jump into the backseat. Richard and Ian take the front.
As we drive through the streets, I know that in the distance Clive is watching us go toward the walls, toward our final confrontation. I close my eyes and think about him and my parents and everyone I’m doing this for, and our road has never felt more straight.
Chapter 27
It isn’t at all what I expected. The Valentine Manor built outside Denver held such opulence, such dark grandeur. But this, the first Valentine house built in America, is held up only by haunted memories now: three stories tall, but the walls are buckling; a roof made of fine timber, eaten away and letting the rain pour into the house’s interior; a massive door that once would have stood as the pride of the wealthy Valentine immigrants now hangs off the hinges, termites having made their home inside.
“This is the place,” Victor says. “I remember the gardens. They looked so beautiful at night.”
“I imagine this place has seen better days,” I say.
“It was once the biggest estate in the Northeast. Now it’s just a shell. My father let it rot away for some reason. Maybe he just grew bored with it. Once he and the servants left, nature did the rest. We vampires are well aware of what time can do to things built by hand.”
“And this is where it all began?” Michael asks.
“I lived here for only a few years,” Victor says. “But I know this is where Sin came into life, where he suffered, where he became twisted inside.”
“It isn’t your fault,” I say, putting my hand on Victor’s.
He doesn’t agree and shakes his head. “I should have come back. I should have known that my father had changed, had become crueler than I could have imagined. I heard he hated his youngest son. I just never knew how much. Or why.”
“We can’t change any of it now,” Ian says. “Trust me, Victor, I know this is hard for you, but you need a clear mind. We all do. If we’re going in there to fight, it has to be for that and nothing else. The time for understanding is over. The time for action is here.”
“He’s right,” Richard says. “It has to end here. Tonight. Sin can’t be saved.”
“I know,” Victor says, rubbing my hand. “I know.”
With stakes drawn, we head into the manor.
The long hallway is dark and I can see that it’s cramped, a corridor meant to keep out the light, not to impress its guests. But once we reach the end and open the doors into the next room, we’re all shocked by what we see.
Light. The chandeliers, the wall lamps, everything is on. Sin must have done it. He must have done it for us.
The grand central room, the heart of the house, was most protected from the elements and time. The roof hasn’t caved in; the stairs haven’t rotted away. It seems as though this place still beats fresh blood, while the rest of the house acts as limbs that have atrophied and died. It haunts us with its glow and its warmth, everything seeming so odd and out of place, as though we’ve stumbled into a dream in the midst of a nightmare.
The massive pillars that hold the ceiling in place, made of beautiful marble, show no signs of aging. Neither does the grand staircase, which is wide enough to drive a car up. A bright red carpet starts at our feet and winds through the room, up the stairs, and ends at the feet of the man who has killed hundreds and turned hundreds more into horrific creatures. He’s left scars everywhere he’s walked, and the shards of shattered lives surround him everywhere he goes.
Sin’s back is turned to us, but there’s no mistaking it’s him or that he is alert to our presence. From this distance, he seems to have finally achieved what he wanted: to become a god. He appears, under the glow of the lamps in this dark house, to be the very source of its light, of its warmth. And there’s no questioning his omniscience, his acute awareness of our steps and our breaths and our heartbeats. I can tell. Maybe it’s because my heart beats with the same Montgomery blood. But I can tell.
In front of him is a massive portrait of the late Murdoch Valentine. It reaches up from the floor to the very top of the ceiling, something only fit for an egomaniac. Maybe Sin is seeing his own face in his father’s. A man of power and action, an agent of great change. Through the weathered canvas and chipped paint, the rotting frame and running colors, his grandeur remains. Maybe it’s even enhanced, as though proving that even in death he is alive and immune to the ever-moving clock.
Sin speaks. “Look at him. Look at Father.”
His voice is calm, but it’s a struggle, as if he were speaking out of a mouth that was no longer his.
“Such arrogance he held. Such shortsightedness. All I asked for . . . was . . . was to feel the sun. That’s all. But you wouldn’t give it to me. No. You had to lock me away, didn’t you? Didn’t you! Talk! Speak to me!”
Whether Sin thinks he’s speaking to a painting or to his father, I don’t know. But I’m aware of Victor moving forward and the others spreading out, taking their places.
“Why? Why didn’t you love me? Why didn’t you . . . see me?”
I can hear . . . No. I can feel his weeping.
“Sin!” Victor shouts, and the weeping stops. “Sin, it’s over.”