Pavel said, “I saw a car accident. Bad one.” He burped, which should be scientifically impossible. But being a vampire should also be scientifically impossible.
Alexei knew a confession when he heard one. “Were you careful?”
“Of course.” Pavel shrugged. “No one saw.”
It still unnerved Alexei that Pavel no longer answered his questions with sarcasm or scorn. Papa’s oldest, illegitimate son had been filled with poisonous jealousy all his human life, a crafty, manipulative imp who had goaded their half brother Dmitri into murdering Papa back in St. Petersburg. During the court trial, Pavel freely recounted his last conversation with Dmitri beforeDmitri decided to act: good and evil were nothing but useless concepts. Morality was a fiction that promoted oppression of the masses. There was nothing sacred about human life. Breaking two of the commandments—dishonoring your father, killing him—was perfectly acceptable, especially if your father withheld your financial birthright and slept with the woman you loved.
Of course the judge was appalled. Alexei believed that the court had found Dmitri guilty despite flimsy evidence and the lack of witnesses because the Karamazovs as a family were so debased—with the exception of the youngest, Alexei, who had become a monk.
One had to consider that Pavel had been born of a sinful union, in a time when shame existed and a birth outside of wedlock was a scandal. It was a lot to overcome when you knew that people whispered about you behind your back, rolled their eyes, murmured, “What do you expect? Look at his mother.” People didn’t think like that anymore.
We are not people.
Another whirr of the elevator was like a growling dog, punctuated by yips of wild laughter. More Karamazovs coming in before the blazing dawn. Ivan had nearly burned to death the first morning after their rising. Lesson learned: Direct sunlight caused vampires to burst into flame.
“Oh yeah, yeah, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh! I am sointoyou!” Out in the hallway, Papa bellowed some vaguely familiar song at the top of his lungs. There were no other tenants on their floor, or the floor above them or below—that was where most of their money went, renting so many apartments—butstill, it was so careless. They didn’t need complaints—or drawing attention to themselves by dressing like thugs, for that matter.
The door crashed open. Dmitri, taller than Papa, stared atAlexei as he half carried, half dragged their drunken father across the threshold. Both of them wore black trousers and black T-shirts. Dmitri also had on a linen blazer, which classed him up. Dmitri was the tallest and the sexiest of the Karamazov brothers. Also, the most powerful of the four brothers now that he was Papa’s favorite. The murder had been a blessing, as far as Fyodor Karamazov was concerned.
“Oh, boys, boys, you shoulda come!” Papa shouted. He started singing again.
Dmitri was not smiling. His forehead was furrowed. Alexei went on alert: something was up.
“Let me get you into bed, old man.” Dmitri leaned over to gather Fyodor in his arms.
“Old? Man?”Papa flailed at Dmitri. “I’m the fuckingkingof the vam—”
The front door opened again and now Ivan stood in the doorway in board shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. His gaze was riveted on his father. The shock on his face reminded Alexei of when they had risen from their graves for the first time. When Alexei tried to catch his eye, Ivan shook his head and wiped his face with trembling hands.
Oblivious to all the undercurrents, Pavel got up and stumbled into the kitchen. “Let’s keep the party going. Who wants vodka?” he called.
Ivan walked over to Alexei, his back to Papa and Dmitri. He stared at Alexei as if he didn’t know who he was.
“How was your evening, Ivan?” Alexei asked quietly. Ivan remained silent.
“I want vodka! I want to drink with my sons! My boys!” Papa bellowed. “I love you all! And all your mothers! And vodka!”
“You’ve had enough.” Dmitri flung his arm around theirfather’s shoulders and walked him into the hall, toward their bedrooms. Ivan took a step in their direction, then fell into the chair that Pavel had vacated.
“Alexei,” he murmured, “someone saw Papa.”
Alexei stayed neutral, because he himself had most likely left witnesses, since his victims survived his feedings. Besides, each of the Karamazovs had slipped up at least once in all the decades. When Ivan didn’t continue, he braced himself. It was more than that. Something had gone very wrong.
“And... Dmitri dispatched the witness,” Ivan finally said.
Pavel returned with a bottle of vodka and four shot glasses, set them all down on Alexei’s desk with a clatter, and said, “Jesus, the old man is really out of it tonight.”
Ivan looked down at his hands. When Pavel began pouring out the shots, Ivan grabbed one and threw it back without waiting for the others. Pavel refilled the shot glass and the three clinked in a toast. The vodka was good, cold.
“Ivan, what happened?” Alexei prompted.
“There was a-a child,” Ivan whispered.
“No.” Dmitri loomed behind Ivan, stone-faced, rigid. He had returned from putting Papa to bed. “It was not a child. It was a baby.”
“What was a baby?” Pavel poured another round.
Dmitri said, “Papa tried to attack a baby.”
