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“Happy to be back in France?” Vancha asked airily.
“Hm? Oh, yes,” Larten muttered. The snow fell thickly now, on the ground and it covered everything. The cars were merely lumps on the streets as they lay there, abandoned.
It was the worst storm the city had seen in nearly a century- the weatherman on the news wouldn’t shut up about it. He remembered the last storm like this- it was The Second World War, the war that horrified the world and still haunted the minds of his friends and family.
“When was the last time you were here?” Vancha asked.
“When Darren was thirteen,” he answered absentmindedly. He hadn’t broken his gaze from outside of the window.
“What?” He asked.
“Murlough,” Darren whispered to Vancha.
“Oh.”
The storm had been preventing them from traveling outside of the city for a few days now, and it was being predicted to only worsen. The last time a storm like this had swept France, Larten had been friends with a con man that ran a casino. It was long before he had informally adopted Gavner as his apprentice. He had passed nearly a decade before. Mentors weren’t meant to bury their apprentices, just as fathers weren’t meant to bury sons.
They said that the gods held favor in those who fought against those that had harmed them or their kin, and had whispered commands into the ears of the great warriors of old. He wondered if they also sought comfort in the bosoms of their brothers, just as the vampires in earth often did. And if, perhaps, they also regretted things that they should have- or shouldn’t have- done.
“And what about the time before that?” Vancha asked.
“I will not be discussing that part of my life with anyone, Vancha- least of all with Darren in the room.”
Except he had. Larten had been drunk so often after Arra’s death, and he had told Darren tales. Tales of a woman named Alicia, of a woman named Sylva, of men named Tanish and Wester, and a little orphan boy named Gavner Purl. He regretted everything about how he treated them, he told Darren one night. He wished that he had been there for Alicia when she had been torn apart.
“Understood,” Vancha muttered quietly.
Being stuck in a small hotel room gave everyone cabin fever. Vancha wanted to go outside; Larten wanted to leave and roam the streets he used to know; and Darren just wanted to get out. Harkat didn’t mind either way. Alice and Debbie were in a room to them, separated by a single door. There was only one bed in their room.
“Should we get the girls and tell them dinner is done?” Darren asked, breaking the awkward silence.
“Sure,” Vancha sighed.
Darren knocked three times on their door before asking for them by name.
Silence.
“Debbie?”
Silence.
“Alice?”
Silence.
“Are they asleep or something?” Vancha asked.
“I’ll open the door!” Darren said loudly.
“Keep your voice down!” Larten hissed.
“That’ll wake them up,” Vancha muttered.
Silence.
“Are they okay?” Vancha asked. He shot up from where he was sitting and made his way over to the door.
“I think so. Alice is a heavy sleeper, and Debbie doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“Debbie will tell people to not disturb Alice when she’s sleeping,” Vancha corrected. “So open the door.”
“Did either of you look at the floor?” Harkat chimed in suddenly.
“No.”
“There’s a letter.”
“Are they being held hostage?” Larten asked, broken from his trance.
“It says here that they’re…” Darren trailed off as he read down the note, “going out for Chinese food because winter storm warnings are for bitches.”
“I knew I loved those two for a reason!” Vancha whispered excitedly. “Let’s join them!”
“Are we even allowed to?”
“You’re a Prince asking for permission?” Vancha asked cynically.
“No,” he said quickly.
“Then let’s get Chinese food.”
“Can you even eat Chinese food?” He asked.
“Nope, but I can drink the alcohol, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Larten, are you coming with us?” Darren asked.
“I will stay behind this time,” he said carefully.
“You sure?” He asked.
“I am sure.”
“Do you know which restaurants are open?” Larten asked. “Or where they have gone?”
“We’ll be able to find out soon enough.”
Vancha didn’t want to leave him by himself. He didn’t know the full story behind what happened in France- no one did. Not even Seba. All they knew was that Larten’s lover had been killed, Wester had disappeared decades after, and Larten rescinded the offer of Princehood. It came as a shock to most, but Vancha thought he knew what happened. Wester had killed her, but he couldn’t have killed her. He was his brother. They had fought together, bled together, and rejoiced together.
And yet-
Yet-
No one had heard from Wester since he had met with Larten on the skyscraper.
Vancha left it alone, and chose to ask him what truly happened once they all made it out alive. And Larten would tell the truth.
Larten felt the soft crunch of the snow beneath his boots. He had often wandered around the graveyards searching for the elusive Randel Chayne, but now he searched for a new enemy. This one had a face to the name, and didn’t hide under a facade. The vampaneze posed a threat as long as their lord was alive. He wouldn’t rest until the war had been won- and he would rather die than lose it.
Larten liked to brush the snow and debris off the tombstones. It was morbid, yes, but it reminded him of his long-lost humanity. It was humbling to remember that the gods crafted humans and vampires from the same dust, and that they would all end up returned to nature sooner or later.
After brushing aside some snow and clearing away dirt off a certain tombstone, he squinted his eyes. The pattern of the letters seemed familiar…
Larten gave a soft gasp.
“Alicia?” He asked, allowing his words to be carried by the wind.
He studied the pattern of the letters and compared them to the signature that had nearly faded from his memory. It was hers.
“I apologize, mon cheri ,” Larten murmured. “I did not mean to disturb you.” He felt a warm tear slide down his cheek.
He wasn’t meant to find her burial place. Sylva had made it clear, and Gavner had refused to show it to him. He always respected his mother more than him, and Larten showed no resentment toward him for it. A man should not be made to choose between his mother and father.
He gently cleaned off the remnants of frozen dirt and ice that had accumulated on her tombstone. It was hard to believe that the woman that had been his entire world lay beneath his feet. Larten hoped that she had found her peace in the afterlife, and that she had no regrets. That was all a vampire could wish for his human paramour.
She would have loved Darren.
Larten finished cleaning off the tombstone, kissed the stone gently, and stood up. He brushed the snow off his knees and wiped tears from his eyes before leaving her gravesite. She and Gavner had found each other by now, and if, by some grace of the gods, they could forgive him, Larten would be relieved. He couldn’t ever forgive himself for what happened to either of them.
A tale spread years later of a devil in red that roamed the graveyard during the great snowstorm of ‘98 in Paris, France. Some said it was the devil himself. Others said it was the wily Quicksilver, reunited with Alicia Dunyk at last.