Blood: The Third Course

Chapter Thirty-Two

Her body was wrapped in white linens, a patchwork quilt laid over her as if, somewhere in whatever afterlife awaited vampires, she might be cold. Spencer thought he recognised the quilt, bright knitted squares interspersed with daintily decorated fabrics. He'd never seen a quilt like it, and was sure he'd never see another that gave him such a warm memory while simultaneously ripping his heart apart.

Spencer had never been around for the disposal of one of their own before. Usually it was done quietly, out of sight, and August took care of it, not wanting to speak of it again. Even when Cleo's body had been disposed of, August refused to talk about what he had done with her. Aside from hearing the roar of a chainsaw from the basement, Spencer, just like the rest of the house, had been kept in the dark.

He'd been told that another, Adam, had died while he'd been away, and his stomach dropped away when he remembered who had told him. Paige had been almost reverent as she told him that Adam and a group of others had decided to have themselves a fight club in the back garden, vampires verses werewolves. August had been furious. His fury at their stupidity had been the reason Patrick now only had one arm. Well, August's fury and William's strength. She'd told him about the werewolf, Priya, staying with them while she healed, and that she'd stayed with them even after the breaks had mended themselves. She'd been halfway through telling him about Edeline's father's threats to turn Priya feral when she'd cut herself off, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and unable to meet his gaze for the next ten minutes. She'd quickly changed the subject, talking about Thomas and his funny little projects to keep himself busy—he'd always been a worker, wanting stuff to do. Being bored annoyed him constantly—but Spencer had been unable to stop thinking about what he'd done to this werewolf's life.

He didn't know what had happened to Adam's body, and wondered if the same would have been true of him, had he not given in. Would August have been the one to take a chainsaw to him and hide his body away, others wondering—but never asking—what had happened to him after his death.

Paige had not been cut apart, and Spencer could only imagine that it was Thomas's feelings that were being spared. August had dismembered his own sire, after all, though that was as far as the comparison went. Cleo had lived a very long time, even Spencer wasn't sure how long, and Paige had been so young. Three months as a vampire, and he had spent almost the entire time away.

William laid the last of the wood in the middle of the lawn, scrunching up some newspapers for good measure and tossing the crumpled pages in at random. He checked with each person, a restrained nod here, a sniff there, that they were ready. He skipped over Spencer and his absent stare at the pile of wood. William picked up Paige's body and carried it over to the pyre, laying it down in the centre. He adjusted some of the wood and laid a layer of brush over her body, quilt and all.

The rest of the house had remained inside, giving the four men some semblance of privacy, though Spencer could feel their gazes on his back through the French doors. Deep in the house, the pained cries of transformation he remembered from his trip to the farm emanated up as if the very bricks of their home was crying in pain.

A petrol can had the nozzle screwed on and was splashed around the wood, the sweet heavy scent creeping through the air. The quilt became dark in patches with it, spreading lakes as more was tipped on.

The match was struck by William. He was about to toss it on when he blew it out again suddenly. He discarded it to the edge of the pyre and took Thomas by the elbow, leading him to the edge.

"I can't," Thomas breathed out.

William wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held out the box of matches to shaking hands.