One Crossroads Later

Chapter Two

Michael 'Robin' O'Shane couldn't remember a night as miserable as this one had shaped up to being. Not in more decades than the normal human lifespan. A mixture of emotions still ran through him, with his mind not able to settle on which one should take prominence. Sorrow, from the contents of the news he'd received. Confusion, trying to figure out why him? Why this? Why now? If he had to be honest, his hand still clutching onto his cell phone with a tight grip, neither one eclipsed the sense of utter betrayal running through him.

They'd lied to him. They both had. And it hurt coming from Flynn.

Robin turned the phone around in his hand twice before looking at the screen again. Needing to do something, his fingers unlocked the phone and paged back to the text message he'd sent Flynn earlier. Before the phone rang, carrying the worst news he'd heard in a while.

'You ran out before I could stop you,' it said. 'Was going to ask if you had any desire to come with me to an orchestra performance.'

The words formed a knife, piercing him in the back. Tossing the phone on his mattress, he rose to a stand and walked away from his bedroom, attempting to sort himself out. He'd barely had a chance to dress, and though a tailored suit hung from his lithe frame, his shoulder-length hair still brushed his shoulders, forming a shroud of brown in his periphery. Robin walked to the bathroom, pulling a tie from his pocket, and used the mirror to secure his ponytail into place.

His brown eyes looked exhausted. The century and a half behind them felt multiplied by three, and something about the look in them only emphasized this. He wanted to be mournful, and a part of his mind knew if he could be more morose it would help his disposition. The truth was, he didn't love Demetrius and Demetrius had known that. Had even chided him over it countless times.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I wanted him dead," he muttered to his reflection.

Even his voice sounded duller than it had when he'd spoken on the phone, his Irish accent dimmed by this unnamed ball of feelings. You knew they'd been up to something, he thought, continuing to stare at himself under the guise of tidying any stray strands of hair. He's been toying around with those swords and knives of his, pretending it was all a hobby. Maybe it had started that way.

It explained a lot about his absences of late.

Robin shut his eyes, feeling both epiphany and nausea wash over him. If he went backward, he wondered, and could trace the nights where Flynn had been indisposed doing something for Sabrina, would those nights overlay with the disappearances of several local vampires? You didn't tell me, Robin thought, opening his eyes. Anger started to rise above the other emotions, gaining primacy.

"You've always been blind to him," his conscience said, bearing a voice remarkably like Demetrius. He remembered how many times his lover – bed mate? – commented about his dysfunctional immortal brother, and how many times Robin would accuse him of being jealous.

"I'm not jealous of Flynn. But if you'd rather be with him..."

"It's not like that."

"What's it like, then? If the coddling you do over your maker's lap dog isn't some perverse kind of love, then what is it, Michael?"

Michael. Even the use of his older moniker told Robin what Demetrius had thought of Flynn. Their nicknames, exchanged after a cold war between them had ended. Flynn no longer resembled a 'Peter', and he accepted Robin as a reminder of how Peter had gotten into this mess in the first place.

He fought against thinking of that story, though his mind latched onto the arguments he always made to Demetrius. And as he paced away from the bathroom, he repeated them to himself anew. He was responsible for Flynn. He cared for him and protected him. Sabrina made him a toy, and it wasn't the fault of a fledgling vampire that he couldn't see through his maker's disguise.