“I’ll go get it,” Shaun offered.
“We should all go together,” DJ said. “Or do I need to go over again whyScooby-Dooisn’t the blueprint we should follow?”
“What’sScooby-Doo?” Jack asked.
Quin’s stomach lurched. How long ago had the boys lived there?
As DJ explained who the mystery gang were, Quin focused his attention on the portrait of Lawrence. The vampire didn’t look like someone who was sorry for having done unspeakable things to the person Quin loved with his whole heart, or to Shaun, or to the boys who hadn’t even been close to seeing a second decade of life.
Incandescent rage built up in Quin’s chest, ripping through his entire body like a hundred-degree fever. He wanted to destroy Lawrence’s image, tear the canvas apart with his claws. But it wasn’t the full moon, and he felt helpless without the power of his beast.
Quin’s finger throbbed, the borrowed ring seeming to heat in response to his anger. He flexed his hand, studying it. The metal was almost black with tarnish, and was getting hotter by the second.
Something flickered at the edge of Quin’s sight. He narrowed his eyes at the painting. There it was again, something moving, but he couldn’t figure out what caused it. He walked towards the mantel, needing to get closer, the ring now so hot it felt like it would melt right off.
“Quin?” Kit’s voice sounded far away.
It was Lawrence, Quin realised. Two fingers curled, beckoning him. Quin’s feet moved of their own volition, entranced, even as his brain screamedwrong,wrong,wrong.
A firm hand took hold of his arm, but Quin couldn’t stop. The painting changed again, Lawrence fixing his gaze right on Quin. He felt pierced by its bright, searing blue. Lawrence’s lips parted, forming unheard words of encouragement. All Quin wanted in that moment was to comply with the request, to get to the painting, to?—
“Quin!”
He blinked as pain spread through his arm. Kit withdrew his claws from Quin’s flesh, the cuts welling with blood.
“What happened?” Kit asked. The other vampires hovered around, the coiled tension in the set of their shoulders telling Quin they’d all seen whatever had come over him.
“I…” Quin looked up at the portrait. It appeared stationary once more. “It moved,” he said, pointing.
“It fuckingwhat?” DJ said.
“A trick of the light?” Shaun suggested hopefully.
The ring flared with searing heat, and Quin wrapped his other hand around his finger, hoping it would staunch the fire that was licking through it. No change. He tilted his head as he took in the painting again, sure that Lawrence was smirking down at him.
Deciding enough was enough, Quin strode forwards, picking up the fire poker to use as a weapon. He drew back his arm, ready to destroy the painting, but Kit grabbed him around the middle, stopping him.
“Stop,” Kit pleaded.
Despite everything in him wanting to do what Kit asked of him, Quin couldn’t tear his eyes away from the painting. He swore he could smell burning flesh and wondered absently if it was his own. Kit held Quin in place, but Lawrence’s image seemed to swell and move, stretching out. Quin—unbidden, unwanted, unwilling—held out his throbbing hand for Lawrence’s grasping fingers.
Quin heard Kit’s words, though they sounded like they’d been shouted from a distant mountaintop. “Help me stop him!”
One of the others said something, but Quin couldn’t discern their words. Voices clamoured together as blackness crept into the corners of Quin’s vision. He let it happen, any fight he had left fleeing his body.
Force yanked the ring from his finger. Quin lurched forwards. Just before the darkness overtook him, a small, scared voice cut through the din.
“He’s here.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Kit
As Kit’shead whipped around to face Jack, Xavier’s ring fell to the floor with an unnaturally heavy thud. Jack was backing away, his hands raised defensively in front of him. His brothers had faded to the point that even Kit’s sharp eyes couldn’t quite make out their features.
Kit shouldn’t have dropped his guard, but Jack sounded terrified. Something solid and sharp raked against Kit’s back—the poker, his mind supplied—and he crashed to the ground in a sprawl.
With a grunt of pain, Kit flipped himself around and pushed up onto his elbows. Jack had been right: it wasn’t Quin standing above him, poker in hand. The caustic grin on his face didn’t belong there.
