Blood Born Read online

  If Stargel was a child then the lack of specific information about him on the Internet made some sense. “Low-life Warriors,” Sorin muttered as he made his way between the houses, toward a chain-link fence that surrounded a neat backyard. They knew what was going on, they knew they were putting the conduits’ lives in danger, and still, they were trying to come in through a kid. How desperate were they to put a child at risk this way?

  Pretty damn desperate, given how Sorin and his hunters were currently kicking their asses.

  Then again, what did they care, Sorin thought as he watched a boy maybe ten years old or so playing with a soccer ball, looking down, kicking the ball, then chasing after it. The Warriors didn’t give a damn about anything except their battles and their victories. They didn’t give a shit about those who gave them the ability to come back to this world.

  Sorin watched the kid for several minutes. He wasn’t a natural athlete; his arms and legs were stubby and he ran with a clumsy gait, sometimes missed kicking the ball even when it was lying right in front of him. But he seemed to be having fun, so his lack of skill didn’t bother him.

  A thought occurred to Sorin: maybe this was Phillip Stargel Junior, and his father, who was still inside the house, sleeping or watching the morning news or trying to deal with the confusion caused by the Warrior’s efforts at contact, was the one Sorin was looking for. That would be great. More trouble, because he’d have to wait even longer for the older Stargel to come out of the house, but … better.

  Without making a sound Sorin leapt over the fence, landing gracefully and silently on the soft green grass. The other yards he could see from this vantage point were deserted at this time of the morning, so if he got the job done quickly he wouldn’t have to deal with any nosy neighbors. There was still the woman, Phillip’s mother, but she wouldn’t be a problem.

  Maybe he could talk Phillip Junior into inviting him into the house. Wouldn’t that be a kick?

  Sorin moved silently, quickly coming up behind the child who was focusing so intently on the soccer ball at his feet. “Phillip,” he said softly, and the kid turned around and looked up.

  The kid had a flat, round face, and widely spaced, slanted blue eyes that regarded Sorin with open curiosity. Sorin caught his breath, slowly let it out. Now it was called Down syndrome, though he couldn’t remember when the terminology had changed. He had no experience with children like this, had no idea how much the kid would understand.

  “Hello,” the kid said. “Who’re you?” His words were a little thick, oddly framed, but understandable. He should be alarmed to find a stranger in his backyard, but he wasn’t.

  “My name is Sorin.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “It’s—” Sorin started to say it was Romanian, but stopped himself. “Yeah, it’s funny. I get kidded about it all the time.”

  “My name is Phillip Anthony Stargel. This is my backyard. I have to go to school soon. I go to a special school. Where do you go to school?”

  “I’m too old for school,” Sorin said, his voice calm though inside he was anything but. This was so wrong … “Is your father’s name Phillip, too?”

  “Phillip Anthony Stargel,” the kid corrected. “That’s my name. My father’s name is Stephen Harrison Stargel. He doesn’t live here anymore. He lives in heaven with Jesus and Grandma Laverne.”

  Sorin felt as if a boulder had settled in his gut. This was the conduit, the only Phillip Stargel at this address, perhaps the only blood relative of some bastard warrior desperate to find his way into this world. Fucking Warriors; didn’t they have any boundaries? Didn’t this one have a conscience?

  “Why are you dressed like it’s winter?” Phillip asked. “It’s summer. I like summer. I don’t like the snow. You don’t need a hat and gloves in the summer. Why are you wearing gloves when it’s not cold? Won’t you sweat?”

  The back door flew open and Phillip’s mother came hurrying out of the house, a cell phone in her hand and both fear and anger in her eyes. She hadn’t called for help yet, but she was prepared to if she found it necessary.

  Sorin turned toward the woman. Even from this distance she was easy to glamour. She was exhausted and lonely, and any natural shields she might’ve had had been destroyed long ago. He caught her eye, filled her with ease and comfort, and commanded her to be still and quiet. She stopped where she was, relaxed, even smiled wanly. The hand that held the cell dropped to her side.

  Sorin turned back to Phillip Stargel, the conduit he’d come to kill.

  “You’re different, aren’t you?” the kid asked, and kicked the soccer ball. It was a pretty good kick, the best he’d made yet, and he crowed with delight as he ran after it. He positioned himself carefully, and kicked the ball toward Sorin. “You’re like my new friend, but not exactly like him. You have a funny light around your face like he does.”

  The soccer ball rolled against Sorin’s boot. He looked down at it, gave it a very light kick back in Phillip’s direction. “You have a new friend?”

  “Yeah.” Phillip tried to field the ball with his feet, missed, and sat down hard on the grass. He immediately scrambled up and with growing enthusiasm kicked the ball again. This time it went wide to the right, and Sorin shifted to intercept it. “He visits sometimes, but not for very long,” Phillip continued. “I want him to stay for a while, but he isn’t really here. He pretends to be here. Can you pretend to be somewhere you really aren’t? I think that’d be fun.”

  “No, I can’t do that,” Sorin said, giving the ball another tap toward Phillip. This time the kid got in front of it, blocked its progress, and beamed with delight.

  “He can’t really be here until I figure out what his name is. I wish he’d just tell me what his name is like you did, but it’s a game we play, just the two of us. I’m not even supposed to tell Mama, but sometimes I forget. She thinks he’s an imaginary friend, but he’s not really imaginary. He has a sword, like a pirate.”

  Sorin had carried a sword in the past, but right now his only weapon was in his pocket, a knife with a razor-sharp six-inch blade. His plan had been to cut Phillip Stargel’s throat and move on, his fourth target in twelve hours down, the trip an unqualified success. It had been a good plan, a simple one; the simple ones were always the best, less chance for something to get fucked up.

  Phillip looked toward his mother, and his smile faded. “Is Mama all right? She looks funny.”

  “She’s just resting,” Sorin said. “She’s fine.”

  That assurance was enough for the kid. “Good. I love my Mama. Isn’t she beautiful?” He was beaming again as he booted the ball toward Sorin.

  Actually, no, she wasn’t; she was tired and worn and a little plain, but seen with love she was beautiful to Phillip. “Yeah,” said Sorin. “Your mother will always be beautiful.”

  Sorin bent down and picked up the soccer ball, motioned for Phillip to come to him. The kid trooped over, a big grin on his face. Sorin went down on one knee, so he was more on a level with the kid, almost face-to-face. Phillip tilted his head as if he were listening to something, frowned, but didn’t move away. “My friend doesn’t like you very much,” he announced.

  “Yeah, I know. The feeling is mutual.” Was it ever. If he ever got the chance, he’d gut that son of a bitch warrior.

  “People should like each other. Maybe when he gets here we can all play soccer and you two can be friends. You can’t have too many friends. Mama will make us cookies, if I ask her to. I like chocolate chip.” Phillip reached out and laid a plump, soft hand on Sorin’s cheek. His slanted eyes knit together with concern. “You don’t have many friends, do you? I can help you make friends. I’m very good at making friends. Everybody loves me.” He smiled widely, flashing a crooked, unrestrained grin filled with joy.

  Sorin looked away from that open, joyful grin. How long had it been since he’d felt a child’s loving touch on his face? The knife was heavy in his pocket, a rock weighing on his soul. Fuck this. Fuck everyth