They Come by Night Page 4

  Phil held the baby while Dave helped Ben get dressed. He smiled down at his nephew. Ty was the closest thing he would have to a child of his own. Perhaps that was why he had no problem touching the baby.

  Of course he loved Ty’s siblings, but they wouldn’t grow up to be sabors.

  They hadn’t been sure Ty had gained enough weight to be discharged when Ben was, but the baby was healthy in all other aspects, and so his pediatrician had given them the okay to take him home.

  The doctor didn’t know—no one knew—Ben wasn’t going home to the house that had been trashed. Their dad had gone through the motions, as if they were going to have it repaired, but that was just to throw off Ben’s in-laws. Ben and Ty were leaving town.

  “How are you going to manage?” Their father had a reason to be concerned; Ben’s arm was still in a sling.

  “I’ll find a way.”

  “I can stay with you, if you want,” Phil volunteered.

  “Thanks, Philly, but I know you need to get back to your own place.”

  “Not right away.”

  Ben reached out to squeeze his arm, but then drew his hand back, and Phil was grateful. Once sabors reached a certain age, which varied from child to child, they couldn’t bear to be touched by anyone who wasn’t a vampyr: not by family, not by friends, and, of course, never by lovers, because they had to remain virgin.

  “Thanks,” Ben repeated, “but I can’t let you do that when it’s so close to the time for a visit.”

  “I’ll go with you, Ben.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Dave, but people would start wondering if you didn’t go home.”

  “Dad could tell them I found a hottie on vacation and I’m exploring the possibility of a relationship.”

  “And when you go home without said hottie?”

  Dave grinned and shrugged. “She dumped me?”

  “What woman in her right mind would dump you?”

  “It happens.” Dave hunched a shoulder. “Listen, I’ll go down and bring the SUV around to the front entrance. Don’t dawdle, Benjamin.”

  Ben tried to flip him off, but the action with his left hand wasn’t as smooth as it would have been with his right, and Phil wasn’t the only one who had to stifle a laugh.

  “I’m really worried. How can we be sure word won’t get back to the Crists? Noah Crist managed to find us before.”

  “Only because Magdalena contacted him.” Phil hated reminding him his wife had so easily turned her back on him. Even more, he hated the defeated slump of his brother’s shoulders. He wanted to offer him the comfort of human contact but was unable to. The entire family knew as Ty grew older, it would be the same for him.

  Their father had no problem with physical contact, however, and he did hug Ben.

  “Will the vampyrs really be able to protect Ty?”

  “Yes.” Their dad handed Ben a gold bar. “This token is their pledge to you and the baby. The rege said they would send one every year on his birthday. And you know I told you the one called Adam will be guarding Tyrell.”

  Phil recognized the bar. He had a lockbox filled with them in a secure location in his little house. He’d been given his just the year before, and it would be the same with the little nephew he held—when Ty turned twenty-five, he would inherit a fortune. Not that he would need it. Vampyrs took very good care of their sabors.

  “They’ve found you a home and a job in Clewiston,” Dad said.

  “We’re going to Florida?”

  “There is more than one Clewiston, Benji,” Phil teased. “This one’s in—”

  “Not here, Phillip.”

  He turned pale as the thought of how his careless words could have jeopardized his nephew. “Sorry, Dad.”

  “The Crists won’t have a clue where you are. Ben, Tyrell will have a good life.”

  “Maggie…. She’s really going to annul our marriage?” Ben put the bar in the duffel bag Dave had brought, along with the clothes.

  “Yes. I won’t offer you any false hope. I’m sorry, son.”

  “No more sorry than I am. Why couldn’t she divorce me if she felt she had to get rid of me? Doesn’t she realize annulment will make our children bastards?”

  Dad had no answer for that, and Phil was glad he’d fallen in love with a vampyr, even if nothing could come of it. It broke his heart to see his brother like this.

  A nurse finally brought in a wheelchair. “Ready to leave us, Mr. Small?”

  “Yes.” He settled himself into the chair.

  “We have a little something the nurses in the department put together for you.” She put the bag in his lap.

  “Thank you. That’s so kind of you.”

  She blushed and poked into it. “It’s not a lot, just some diapers and baby wipes, a few cans of formula, and a couple of onesies.”

  “Still, that’s very kind. My son and I appreciate it.”

  “We were all just so sorry his mother… I mean….” She blushed deeper. “Ty is a little sweetie.”

  Phil wasn’t surprised the entire floor was aware of what Magdalena had done. Word of her spectacular breakdown had spread like the proverbial wildfire.

  He looked down at his nephew, who gazed at him with wide, unblinking eyes. All newborns were supposed to have blue eyes, but he had a feeling Ty’s would remain the same dark blue as Ben’s. He rested his hand on the baby’s head for a moment. He also had a feeling Ty would be truly remarkable when he grew up.

  “Thank you,” his brother said again.

  The nurse gave a weak smile and scurried out of the room. She obviously meant well, but Phil could tell his oldest brother was going to fall apart in a second.

  So could their dad. He took the bag from Ben’s lap. “Phil, let Ben have Tyrell.”

  Ben reached out his good arm, and Phil gave him his son.

  “It’ll be okay, Ben.” Phil swung the strap of the duffel over his shoulder.

  “Sure.” Ben tightened his hold on Ty. The baby didn’t even whimper. Maybe he’d grow up being able to tolerate being touched.

  Although it wasn’t likely, for Ty’s own sake, Phil hoped so.

  An aide tapped on the doorframe. “Ready to go, Mr. Small?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alrighty, then. Wagons forward yo!” the aide sang out, and he pushed the wheelchair out of the room, heading for the elevators.

  Phil glanced at his father, pleased to see his smile was a little more relaxed.

  “Let’s go, Phil. John Wayne’s getting away from us.” And they left St. Michael’s for the last time.

  IX

  THEY’D BEEN in Clewiston—the small town in New York State, not Florida—for almost five months, and Ben found it a nice place to live. His neighbors were good people who welcomed him with open arms, especially Mrs. Andrews, the woman who lived next door. She thought a “widower” raising an infant son on his own would be perfect for her niece, who was single and almost thirty. Ben didn’t know who was more relieved—Honey or himself—when he finally managed to convince Mrs. Andrews it was too soon for him.

  The house was nice too, a two-story Tudor with the bedrooms on the second floor. The room he chose for the nursery was at the back of the house, away from street noise.

  Ben stood beside the crib, watching as his son slept. Lashes like sooty spikes fanned over the baby’s smooth pink cheeks, and tiny, perfect lips pursed from time to time as if in kisses.

  “Oh, little one, what do I tell you when you ask about your mother and your brothers and sisters?” For the first time, he regretted the day he’d ever met Magdalena Crist. Having a child like Ty should have been a joy, a wonder, and she’d made it a source of sorrow and heartache.

  How could Ben tell his youngest son of his mother’s reaction to what he was? And how was he going to tell Ty what he was?

  No. He shook his head. Ty wasn’t even six months old. There would be plenty of time for him to figure out the best way to broach this subject.

  He dropped a tender kis
s on the wispy black curls that covered his son’s head, then hurried to his bedroom and picked up the small cedar box from the dresser. Maggie had planned to give it to Sarah when she turned thirteen, but it had been left behind. He’d put Ty’s original birth certificate into the box, as well as his marriage certificate, the other kids’ birth certificates, and the handful of photos and the sole videotape Dave had managed to rescue.

  He needed a good place to conceal this, a safe place.

  Against one wall was the door to the master closet. He walked in and looked around.

  A cord dangled from the hatch in the ceiling. He tugged on it, and the hatch opened, enabling him to unfold the ladder that gave access into the attic.

  The attic was empty right now, but in the coming years Ben knew he’d store Christmas decorations there, as well as the clothes, toys, and books Ty would outgrow.

  He found a shadowy corner and placed the box there.

  Without looking back, he returned to the ladder, climbed down, and folded it in on itself. With that done, he put it back in place and closed the hatch.

  He’d look in on his son a final time and then get ready for bed.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  COME BY NIGHT

  BIRTHDAYS SUCKED, for me at least. Each one meant another year where I didn’t grow any taller, didn’t look any older than the year before, and it had been like that since I was ten. Rather than sugarplums, visions of me still being carded when I was thirty danced in my head, and always at the worst of times.

  Take today, for instance. It was my sixteenth birthday. All my friends were talking about going for their driver’s licenses, or going for their road tests, or going to choose their first car. Not to say I couldn’t do those things too, but would I even be able to reach the gas pedal or the brake? Without those blocks of wood taped to them so my feet could reach them?

  On top of being such a runt, there was that birthmark on the side of my neck. Shaped like a tea stain but too dark for a strawberry mark, it looked like someone had cut my throat and I’d bled all over myself. Turtleneck shirts and sweaters had helped at first, but they were a bitch in hot weather. Cover-up worked better, but when I sweated, it ran, and as a result, it looked as if I hadn’t bothered to wash my neck.

  And if that wasn’t enough, there was the fact that since my tenth birthday I’d been unable to tolerate anyone touching me.

  So here I was at sixteen, no sign of puberty in sight, no girlfriend, no boyfriend, or a desire for one, but at least the choir mistress of our church was happy because my voice was still in the soprano register.

  I sighed and let myself into the house where I lived with my dad. It had been the two of us for as long as I could remember. Not that my mother was dead, or anything like that. The one time I’d got up the courage to ask about her, Dad had said it was because one day she’d just decided she didn’t want to be married to him, and she’d left with my four older siblings.

  Dad was a good man, and plenty of the moms would watch him with interest when he showed up for parent-teacher conferences or any of those occasions at school that called for parental involvement. To tell the truth, so did some of the teachers, although I wasn’t supposed to know anything about that.

  So I couldn’t see anyone not loving him. I thought maybe it was just that Mom didn’t want me, and since Dad did, she’d left us both.

  There was nothing I could do about that, so… I just didn’t think about it.

  I was real good about not thinking about some things.

  Dad loved me, and that was all that mattered to me. He made sure I had a good lunch in my lunchbox or money when we were having pizza at school, a clean handkerchief in my pocket, and milk money until we realized I was lactose intolerant. Then he made sure I always carried lactase, the enzyme supplement, with me.

  Sometimes, though, I’d looked up from my homework to ask him a question and found him watching me with the saddest look.

  “Dad?”

  He’d smiled and shaken his head. “You’re growing so fast, Ty. Before we know it, you’ll be in high school. Now, what did you want to know?”

  I’d smiled back at him and asked my question, but inside I’d felt cold, because I hadn’t been growing.

  What was Dad really worrying about?

  “I’M HOME, Dad,” I called. Because of the time, I knew he’d already be home from the construction site where he worked.

  “You’re late, Ty.” He appeared in the front foyer. A single glance, and our relationship was obvious to anyone who cared to look, from the cleft in both our chins, identical straight noses—although Dad had a bump in his from the time he’d broken it back in the day—and high cheekbones, down to the blue-black hair and midnight-blue eyes. The biggest difference was in our size, because while he was six feet tall, I was still four foot nothing. “I was starting to worry. It’s getting dark.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Coach kept me after practice.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. He gave me a note for you.”

  “Ty, what have you been up to?”

  “Nothing, Dad. Honest.” I wasn’t concerned, not really. I was a good runner, and I made good grades, unlike some of the jocks, so Coach wasn’t worried I’d be put on detention just before a big meet and ruin the team’s chances of rising up in our division.

  Dad grinned at me, but he didn’t ruffle my hair like most dads would. “Give me the note.”

  I pulled it out of my backpack and handed it to him, then went into the kitchen to pour myself one of the protein shakes Dad kept in the fridge for me. I was hoping they’d help me grow, but so far no luck.

  I’d almost finished chugging it when I heard, “Ah, damn!”

  “Dad?” Before I could bolt to the front part of the house, he came into the kitchen. His face was pale, and the muscle in his right eyelid twitched rhythmically. I set down the glass. “Dad, what is it?”

  “Your coach saw you while you were in the shower.”

  “You’re not saying Coach is perving on me, are you?” I tried to smile at my little joke, but my stomach felt as if I were on a roller coaster going down a 456 foot drop at 128 mph.

  “Of course not.”

  Of course, “of course not.” Coach was a great guy, after all. But why had he felt the need to send a note to my father?

  “Tyrell, you’re not stupid. You’ve seen the other boys.”

  “Ye-yes?”

  “Today’s your birthday. Happy birthday, by the way.”

  I blinked, totally confused. “Oh, thanks, Dad.”

  “Your gift is in the living room.”

  Probably another pair of Nikes. That was what he always got me for my birthday. I didn’t outgrow them, but they wore out from all the running I did.

  “Anyway, didn’t you ever wonder about it? You’re sixteen now and yet your voice hasn’t changed, you haven’t had that growth spurt, and your chin and chest and… and groin are still hairless.”

  I was relieved he didn’t say anything about my dick not growing, either. “I… I never stopped to think about it.” To tell the truth, I’d been afraid to think about it, afraid I was some kind of freak.

  I’d hoped if I ignored it, it would go away.

  “Your coach wants me to take you to see an endocrinologist.”

  “Yeah, Dad?” I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to see a doctor, any more than I wanted to know what was wrong with me, certain it was incurable and that I wasn’t going to live to see sixteen. Well, seventeen, now I’d actually reached that momentous birthday.

  “And a dermatologist.”

  “Why?”

  He came to me and raised his hand. In spite of myself, I flinched. He’d never struck me before, and I couldn’t see him striking me now, but for the past six years I hadn’t liked being touched. More than that, it could be downright painful.

  Dad knew that. If he thought it was necessary…. The shake I’d downed felt like it was going to make a return appearance.

 
; He settled his fingers just under my right ear, then lightly ran them down the side of my throat over the mark I’d had since the day I was born.

  “Oh. That.” I shivered and backed away a step. No one ever touched that mark—it kind of freaked them out.

  “I’m not going to take you to see anyone.” He stared down at his fingers, then closed them in a tight fist.

  “Daddy?”

  “It’s time for me to explain the facts of life to you.”

  I could feel my face going up in flames. “I know them, Dad,” I mumbled.

  He didn’t pat my shoulder, even though he might have wanted to. “You may, for the average person.”

  I was too embarrassed to question his emphasis of average. Much as I loved him, the idea of talking about sex with him—blowjobs, hand jobs, fucking—just skeeved me.

  “First off, there’s nothing wrong with you. And I’m not saying that because I’m your dad and it’s my job to tell you things like that. You are normal. You’ll go into puberty when your body recognizes the time is right.”

  “Then why—”

  “Y’see…. The thing of it is….” He didn’t seem to know where to begin, and I felt my gut clench and my sphincter tighten. “You’re just not a normal.”

  I stood there frozen. Oh God, this was going to be bad. I knew it. I was a freak. I was a—

  “You’re a sabor, Ty.”

  I’d opened my mouth to scream a protest, but that stopped me dead. “Huh?” I blinked and swallowed again. “A what?”

  “A sabor. Come and sit down, son.” He tugged on my shirtsleeve until I sank down on a chair beside him.

  “Is that, like, French or Italian?” I frowned. “I thought we were Romanian, way back when.” I tried to smile, but it wasn’t successful.

  “Oh, Ty.” He was so solemn.

  I swallowed for a third time. “What’s a… what’s a sabor, Dad?”

  “The literal translation isn’t important—it’s what the word actually represents. Give me a minute to gather my thoughts, okay?” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re going to think I’ve lost my mind,” he muttered. “Okay, this is the way it is. And don’t say anything until I’ve finished, okay?”