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It was brilliant, really. The way he’d played it.
The idea had come to him suddenly, there in the tunnels.
The view all around him right now was grey, but that memory made bright, acidic color burst throughout the scene.
Why wait until the next encounter? He was here now, why string it out, why—
“I want to tell him”
He would never have to tell Gannen anything twice again.
Because of course it couldn’t just be Darren that knew — of course everyone had to know. Well, all the vampires knew now, so this little party of theirs had been on the run ever since. Constant near scrapes. Mountain vampies around every corner—
— but it was worth it. —
Another condemned apartment building now. No tails around for quite a while, and the rain would cover their tracks, he was sure.
“It might.” Gannen had said, contradicting him, and Steve had felt all the hatred in his voice. Because that was what it was. And not the good kind of hatred — not the fearful kind.
Gannen didn’t fear Steve. He feared what would happen without Steve. But it wasn’t Steve that he feared.
He hated Steve — hated him as the lesser of two evils.
Steve clenched his fist— then, returned his attention to the photograph in his hand.
It calmed him, somehow. The photo — perhaps the only one of its kind. A mug shot — a little human mug shot of a Vampire Prince, not that any of those humans knew it. The thought made Steve laugh.
But no, that wasn’t it.
It was a photo of Darren, trapped.
Darren who, only hours before the photo was taken, had still believed in his childhood friend. Darren, who hadn’t yet grasped the magnitude of Steve’s betrayal— no, retribution—
Darren, his Darren, after all these years, to touch him, to see how he’d changed. He was still the same Darren that Steve remembered, in so many ways, yet he was also a vampire. One of them… one of us.
Because that was it, they really weren’t any different. Vampire Prince Darren was so much just childhood Darren with a layer of Gannen over him, he might as well have been a vampaneze.
Had it surprised Steve, that everything new about his enemy was so familiar from his own clan?
No, not really. If he’d cared about them, about any of them, he might have called off the war on those grounds — the thrill it gave him, to know that that was a call only he could make — but no.
This wasn’t about them, vampires or vampaneze.
This was personal.
Darren must burn, just like Creepy Crepsley. Steve might burn with him, and take the whole lot of both clans down as well.
He didn’t care.
Because even in the photo, there was fire in those lovely green eyes. And if Steve couldn’t have that fire for himself…
If the world is on the brink
Then let’s love the oblivion