Morals Of Vampire {#3}

Part 23

[Part 23]

It was an international affair.

The stronger ones were hit with a sudden sense of weakness, the bitter coating their tongues with the realization and recognition of what this utmost weakness meant to them. The weaker ones fell to their knees and trembled with a sudden cold that took over them –even the ones that lived in the tropics.

The youngest and newest of vampires simply fainted with the impact of the combined, enhanced effect flowing through them.

It was like for all vampires, their world had stopped. Even those who had disguised themselves as fellow humans, working in their human jobs, paused in everything that they did, their hands unconsciously pressed over their heart as it bled, radiating with pain with every lively thump.

A part of every vampire fell away. The blood that was the Master Council Elder's, no matter how diluted in each and every vampire, slowed down and disintegrated into nothingness. The piece of the Maker of all Vampires simply disappeared in that one single coordinated moment in all vampires, leaving everyone weaker than they had ever been.

All of vampire-kind would never be as strong as they were before.

In the park, a chill, stoned silence filled the surrounding. No wind blew, no birds dared to make a single sound. It was the silence of a graveyard, as the only two men stood standing, glaring at each other. Both of them had felt the weakness right in their bones, and while their brethren had fallen to their knees, weak and struggling for breath –Roger-Luc being the youngest, falling unconscious.

In the elder man's outstretched hands was a shirt that draped his arms. Dust covered his arm.

Dust that used to be a man, a vampire.

They were both covered in blood, but no longer could they smell the scent that came with the blood.

The weapons fell from the younger man's loose fingers, the first sound echoing in everyone's ears.

"I succeeded!" The exclamation was made with surprise, as the Russians looked up to their Master throwing his arms crazily into the air, covered head-to-toe in blood. "I... succeeded..."

It was not a surprise when the hard, vicious and cruel Russian Coven Master sobered at the realization of all that he had done. The tears crowded his eyes as he kept his eyes adamantly off his brother, on the clothes that had vampire dust on it. He had killed his own beloved brother, his only family left. He had killed the only person who hadn't changed in the years, the only person who refused to view him in contempt or fear.

The only man who had truly understood him; and understood what an addiction it was to live without morals... and Skalov had killed him.

"This war..." Skalov said, his voice breaking. Then, when English could no longer express his feelings, he returned to his mother tongue, knowing that no matter how Americanized Cian was, the Master of the North American Council could understand him. "I have lost this war, Cian. Because I am the one who shed tears for him, and you didn't."

Cian's hard eyes gave away no moisture at all.

"I stopped shedding tears when our parents died." Cian's answer was –for the first in a long time –in Russian. "Winning this war is meaningless."

"What have I done?" Skalov sank to his knees, the weight of realization driving him down.

"You have abandoned your last morals." Cian stiffly answered, then knelt down slowly, resting what used to be Kieran's blood-stained shirt down carefully on the floor. Fingers tightened over the shiv that had fallen to the floor. "And as your brother, so will I."