"Do this one thing for me," I repeated. "Please."
"Afterward, when I kill him, you won't hate me? Once we see Julian, you'll forget all this and come to France?"
"Yes."
How did Wade feel, hearing his life discussed as a bargaining chip? His face was unreadable.
Philip walked slowly to the couch and sat down, looking disgusted and uncomfortable. "What do I do?"
"Look at me," Wade answered. "Imagine your eyes are fingers pushing inside my head, searching for pictures."
They stopped speaking. With rapt interest, I watched Philip's face. Could he do it?
Expecting both their expressions to go blank, I was stunned when Wade began crying. Philip, of course, had no tear ducts, but a sobbing choke escaped his mouth. Is this what Wade and I had done while lost down histories past? Did we feel each experience in our forgotten bodies?
Their faces both shifted into faint smiles. What were they seeing now? Perhaps I was wrong to observe this private exchange. Wade had unselfishly given up the core of his most hidden self simply because I asked him to.
Telling myself every few moments to get up and leave them alone, I stood there for over an hour, gauging every flicker, every twitch, wondering what memory had passed by.
A Japanese vase overflowing with freshly cut red and yellow flowers sat on the table behind them. Wade's near-white hair contrasted sharply against the bright tones, and Philip's blended perfectly. Bizarre pair, these two men. One ruled by unrealistic concepts of right and wrong, the other by incomprehensible physical drives. Maggie would have laughed at them.
Without warning, Wade grabbed Philip's wrist and looked away.
"No more. It hurts."
Instead of jerking his hand back, Philip sat with chattering teeth. I went over and crouched by his leg. "Do you see now? You won't hurt him?"
"Such an existence," he whispered. "Spending every day in the same building. Typing on computers… walking in the sunlight. I'd forgotten what the sun looks like."
"That felt different than melding with Eleisha," Wade said, still trying to get his breath. "I kept showing you darker emotions, uglier scenes."
Philip carefully drew his wrist away. "A sad life. Alone, like us." He gazed down at me. "But we have to run now. No more truce with Julian."
I blinked, confused. "You said he'd let me go."
"Not now," Philip answered. "If he finds us now, we are all lost… and your pet."
Too much. Too fast. I thought to solve Philip's fear, his hatred. How could things be worse? "What are you saying?"
"A nightmare from the past, something long over. When I sought you out, wondered about the company of my own kind again, I had doubts. Would my gift affect you? Would you even want me? Could I hunt with someone else? But not this, never this."
"Never what?"
He looked so sad, defeated. I hated it. Philip feared no one, not even Dominick. Why was he doing this?
"Can you see inside of me?" he said. "Read my thoughts?"
"I don't know. Can't you just tell me what's wrong?"
He turned to Wade, almost politely. "I have to show Eleisha something private. Will you go into the bedroom for a while?"
Wade opened his mouth as if to argue and then closed it. Keeping secrets from him seemed pointless. He knew so much already. But his manner with Philip had changed drastically since an hour ago. Finally, he nodded. "Call out when you're finished."
"Yes."
I remember noticing that Wade was wearing a thick canvas jacket-probably something he'd bought on his shopping excursion- and he hadn't taken it off. Since the room was warm, I thought this odd, but events were moving so quickly, I never bothered asking about it.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.
Philip pulled me up to the couch, and I turned all my attention to him. Not waiting for words, I slipped inside his eyes, finding access almost too easy.
Chapter 22
Philip
I can't! Why can't I do it?"
Julian's anguished voice echoed off cold library walls. The winter of 1825 proved harsh, although Philip seldom worried about things like weather. He didn't need fire or warmth, only blood. At first the idea of spending December in Harfleur with his master, Angelo, and his undead brothers pleased Philip. But Julian's growing discontent dampened this visit, making him wish he'd remained in Gascony with Maggie.
"Why do you bother?" he asked, growing bored. "It's only a candlestick."
Julian often sat for hours at a time at their aged oak table, trying to move various items with his mind. "Because John developed his psychic powers within months of being turned," he answered, "by receiving thoughts from Master Angelo. That is how our mental powers develop, through contact with our makers and with other vampires… but I have nothing. Angelo has tried with me, but even after all this time, I have no power."
"Ridiculous," Philip answered, shaking his head. "Your gift is strong."
"Against mortals, not against other vampires."
This made no sense to Philip. Why would any of them need a defense against each other? Julian's gift for inducing fear was overwhelming. Philip thought it much more useful than telepathy.
"I never developed psychic powers either," he said.
"You're different. You cannot even remember your mortal life."
"I don't care."
"You don't care, Philip? Not a bit of psychic power in you, and you truly don't care?"
"Why should I? I'm pleased with my gift."
"Only because you're vain, shallow, and conceited. Get out and leave me alone."
Philip knew they all thought him simple because he was the youngest and had no passion for their histories or studies or dusty old books. Blood mattered. And Julian entertained the greatest gift of them all. Why should he pine so pitifully over this psychic ability of John's? Fear was a better weapon than telepathy or telekinesis-at least for hunting.
Master Angelo had chosen the three of them because they were so different from each other. "My sons," he called them. "Feed and explore and live forever."
Wasn't that enough? Shouldn't that be enough for anyone?
This library was on the main floor of Angelo's stone fortress. An empty hearth stood in the back wall, but shelves of faded, leather- or clothbound books lined the other three. A large oak table stood near the hearth, surrounded by four chairs. Philip never sat in his chair, as he'd never liked this room and he hated sitting for more than a few moments.
Julian focused his brooding gaze on the candle again, so Philip turned and walked away.
He moved up the corridor, slipped through a narrow doorway, and went downstairs to find John reading a book in the wine cellar. Three fat candles illuminated the casks and bottles stretching back into darkness beyond their light's reach.
"Isn't anyone going hunting tonight?" Philip said. "It's snowing. We should be outside chasing carolers."
John looked up through a lock of uncombed, sandy-blond hair. He was a large man with dark blue eyes and ever-present stubble on his strong jaw. "Why don't you take Julian? He's not been out for a week."
"He's still staring at that candlestick. Can't you talk to him?"
"Master Angelo tried last night. Don't worry. It's just a phase. If you had half a brain in that pretty head, you'd want more power, too."
"Well, thank God I don't," Philip said. "Tell me what I'm thinking right now."
John concentrated briefly and then threw the book at him. "You're thinking I'm a stuffy old porcupine for sitting in this chair reading when I should be outside running in the snow with you."