Morrigan's Cross (Circle Trilogy 1)

“Do you want to lecture me?” Cian began as he rose to get the bottle again. “Or do you want to know?”

“I need to know.”

“Some hunt in packs, some alone. At wakening we’re most vulnerable—from the first when we wake in the grave, to every evening if we’ve slept through the day. We are night creatures. The sun is death.”

“You burn in it.”

“I see you know some things.”

“I saw. They hunted me when I journeyed home. In the form of wolves.”

“Only vampires of some age and power, or those under the protection of another powerful sire can shape shift. Most have to content themselves with the form in which they died. Still, we don’t age, physically. A nice bonus feature.”

“You look as you did,” Hoyt replied. “Yet not. It’s more than the garb you wear, or the hair. You move differently.”

“I’m not what I was, and that you should remember. Our senses are heightened, and become more so the longer we survive. Fire, like the sun, will destroy us. Holy water, if it’s been faithfully blessed, will burn us, as will the symbol of the cross, if held in faith. We are repelled by the symbol.”

Crosses, Hoyt thought. Morrigan had given him crosses. Part of the weight eased from his shoulders.

“Metal is fairly useless,” Cian continued, “unless you manage to cut off our heads. That would do the trick. But otherwise…”

He rose again, walked over and picked up Hoyt’s dagger. He flipped it in the air, caught the hilt neatly, then plunged the blade into his chest.

Blood seeped out on the white of Cian’s shirt even as Hoyt lunged to his feet.

“Forgot how much that hurts.” Wincing, Cian yanked the blade free. “That’s what I get for showing off. Do the same with wood, and we’re dust. But it must pierce the heart. Our end is agonizing, or so I’m told.”

He took out a handkerchief, wiped the blade clean. Then he pulled off his shirt. The wound was already closing. “We’ve died once, and aren’t easily dispatched a second time. And we’ll fight viciously anyone who tries. Lilith is the oldest I’ve ever known. She’ll fight more brutally than any.”

He paused, brooded into his wine. “Your mother. How did you leave her?”

“Heartbroken. You were her favorite.” Hoyt moved his shoulders as Cian looked up into his face. “We both know it. She asked me to try, to find a way. In her first grief, she could think of nothing else.”

“I believe even your sorcery stops short of raising the dead. Or undead.”

“I went to your grave that night, to ask the gods to give her heart some peace. I found you, covered with dirt.”

“Clawing out of the grave’s a messy business.”

“You were devouring a rabbit.”

“Probably the best I could find. Can’t say I recall. The first hours after the Wakening are disjointed. There’s only hunger.”

“You ran from me. I saw what you were—there had been rumors of such things before—and you ran. I went to the cliffs the night I saw you again, at our mother’s behest. She begged me to find a way to break the spell.”

“It’s not a spell.”

“I thought, hoped, if I destroyed the thing that made you…Or failing that, I would kill what you’d become.”

“And did neither,” Cian reminded him. “Which shows you what you’re up against. I was fresh and barely knew what I was or what I was capable of. Believe me, she’ll have cannier on her side.”

“Will I have yours on mine?”

“You haven’t a prayer of winning this.”

“You underestimate me. I have a great deal more than one prayer. Whether a year has passed or a millennium, you are my brother. My twin. My blood. You said yourself, it’s blood, first and last.”

Cian ran a finger down his wine glass. “I’ll go with you.” Then held that finger up before Hoyt could speak. “Because I’m curious, and a bit bored. I’ve been in this place for more than ten years now, so it’s nearly time to move on in any case. I promise you nothing. Don’t depend on me, Hoyt. I’ll please myself first.”