Philip

I can't! Why can't I do it?"

Julian's anguished voice echoed off cold library walls. The winter of 1825 proved harsh, although Philip seldom worried about things like weather. He didn't need fire or warmth, only blood. At first the idea of spending December in Harfleur with his master, Angelo, and his undead brothers pleased Philip. But Julian's growing discontent dampened this visit, making him wish he'd remained in Gascony with Maggie.

"Why do you bother?" he asked, growing bored. "It's only a candlestick."

Julian often sat for hours at a time at their aged oak table, trying to move various items with his mind. "Because John developed his psychic powers within months of being turned," he answered, "by receiving thoughts from Master Angelo. That is how our mental powers develop, through contact with our makers and with other vampires… but I have nothing. Angelo has tried with me, but even after all this time, I have no power."

"Ridiculous," Philip answered, shaking his head. "Your gift is strong."

"Against mortals, not against other vampires."

This made no sense to Philip. Why would any of them need a defense against each other? Julian's gift for inducing fear was overwhelming. Philip thought it much more useful than telepathy.

"I never developed psychic powers either," he said.

"You're different. You cannot even remember your mortal life."

"I don't care."

"You don't care, Philip? Not a bit of psychic power in you, and you truly don't care?"

"Why should I? I'm pleased with my gift."

"Only because you're vain, shallow, and conceited. Get out and leave me alone."

Philip knew they all thought him simple because he was the youngest and had no passion for their histories or studies or dusty old books. Blood mattered. And Julian entertained the greatest gift of them all. Why should he pine so pitifully over this psychic ability of John's? Fear was a better weapon than telepathy or telekinesis-at least for hunting.

Master Angelo had chosen the three of them because they were so different from each other. "My sons," he called them. "Feed and explore and live forever."

Wasn't that enough? Shouldn't that be enough for anyone?

This library was on the main floor of Angelo's stone fortress. An empty hearth stood in the back wall, but shelves of faded, leather- or clothbound books lined the other three. A large oak table stood near the hearth, surrounded by four chairs. Philip never sat in his chair, as he'd never liked this room and he hated sitting for more than a few moments.

Julian focused his brooding gaze on the candle again, so Philip turned and walked away.

He moved up the corridor, slipped through a narrow doorway, and went downstairs to find John reading a book in the wine cellar. Three fat candles illuminated the casks and bottles stretching back into darkness beyond their light's reach.

"Isn't anyone going hunting tonight?" Philip said. "It's snowing. We should be outside chasing carolers."

John looked up through a lock of uncombed, sandy-blond hair. He was a large man with dark blue eyes and ever-present stubble on his strong jaw. "Why don't you take Julian? He's not been out for a week."

"He's still staring at that candlestick. Can't you talk to him?"

"Master Angelo tried last night. Don't worry. It's just a phase. If you had half a brain in that pretty head, you'd want more power, too."

"Well, thank God I don't," Philip said. "Tell me what I'm thinking right now."

John concentrated briefly and then threw the book at him. "You're thinking I'm a stuffy old porcupine for sitting in this chair reading when I should be outside running in the snow with you."

"Too right."

Since he had no memories of mortal life, Philip didn't understand concepts like social tension between the French, Welsh, and Scottish. John McCrugger had simply always been there, a permanent fixture, good-natured, oversized, and unwashed.

"You're so simple, Philip," he said. "Such a purist. No wonder Angelo loves you."

"Love is for mortals and sheep, not Angelo. Get off that chair and come outside."

Philip tried to duck right, but John caught the back of his neck and shoved his body against the ground, pushing his face into the cold, crisp snow. Philip was faster on his feet, but once John got a grip, the game was over.

"Give up. You're done for," the Scotsman said, laughing. "Or I'll grind that pretty face blue."

Philip arched his back and tried unsuccessfully to break away. "All right, I give."

"You won't kick me?"

"No."

After one last shove, John took his hand away. Philip, of course, twisted around instantly and kicked up hard enough to snap his companion's jaw. "Can't you tell when I'm lying?"

John roared and lunged for him again, but he was off and running for the nearest tree. These were good times. It seemed strange that both his brothers and his master tended to change once they were alone with him, dropping all that intellectual nonsense and living like real hunters, wild and strong. John most of all… Julian least of all.

"Climb up and get me!" Philip called from a low branch, knowing John was no climber.

"You can't stay up there forever. Might as well come down now and let me break that foot."

"I think not." Philip's mind switched focus so quickly he often frustrated people. "Let's go into town. I'm hungry."

"How could you possibly be hungry? You fed last night."

Philip dropped to the ground. "I'll race you."

"No, if you really want to go that far, we should saddle the horses."

"All right, but my horse is faster than yours."

Wrestling match forgotten, they were soon flying through the icy air down the road toward Harfleur proper. Angelo's winter home stood four miles away from the city, giving him easy access without being too close. The muscles of Philip's horse felt solid yet fluid beneath his knees. He liked his bay mare, Kayli. The trip from Gascony would have been lonely without her. He didn't function well without company.

"Slow down," John called.

Reining Kayli down to a walk, Philip swiveled his head back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's still early and a crisp night. I thought we might talk awhile."

"Talk?"

Their horses fell into step along the snow-packed road. "I was just watching you ride," John said. "Strange how you remember things like riding and where to grow the best grapes, how to speak both French and English, yet you don't recall anything of your mortal life."

Philip shifted in his saddle, bored already. "That's old hat."

"You couldn't even speak at first, not at all. Frightened Angelo pale. You were like a newborn babe. Did you know I met you once, before he turned you?"

"You did?" Philip was suddenly interested. "What was I like?"

"Different than you are now. Almost timid. The idea of filling your father's shoes as marquis seemed a death sentence. When Angelo offered you a way out, you jumped on it."

"Angelo asked me?"

"Of course he did. It was Julian's idea. Angelo wanted three sons, you know."

Philip did know. In fact, he knew more than his brothers suspected. Not that they would have minded; they simply viewed him as mentally deficient. John had been turned in 1801, Julian in 1818, both emerging into the undead world exactly as Angelo wanted them.

But Philip woke up in darkness, unable to communicate, yet terrified to be alone for fear that without someone else in the room to prove his existence, he might disappear. Then Angelo showed him how to hunt, and he found purpose. Language came back to him slowly, and the memory of a face, ivory with brown eyes and chocolate hair.