Reign Of Gods (Book #1 in 'Vampire God Trilogy') [COMPLETED]

Chapter 7

Please do watch the YouTube video given above, it has important connections with this chapter. If you wanna understand the chapter fully so see that video.
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It wasn't the same. The furnishings, the colors, the light, even the sound
his footsteps made crossing the floor had changed, turning the familiar into
the foreign. He recognized a few pieces-some candlestands and a chest. But they were in the wrong places.

Logs had been set in the hearth, but were yet unlit. And there were no
dogs curled up on the floor or thumping their tails in greeting.
Hoyt moved through the rooms like a ghost. Perhaps that‟s what he
was. His life had begun in this house, and so much of it had been woven
together under its roof or on its grounds. He had played here and worked
here, eaten and slept here.
But that was hundreds of years in the past. So perhaps, in a very true sense, his life had ended here as well.

His initial joy in seeing the house dropped away with a weight of
sadness for all that he‟d lost.
Then he saw, encased in glass on the wall, one of his mother‟s
tapestries. He moved to it, touched his fingers to the glass as she came
winging back to him. Her face, her voice, her scent were as real as the air
around him.

"It was the last she‟d finished before... "

"I died," Cian finished. "I remember. I came across it in an auction. That, and a few other things over time. I was able to acquire the house oh,
about four hundred years ago now, I suppose. Most of the land as well."

"But you don‟t live here any longer."

"It‟s a bit out of the way for me, and not convenient to my work or
pleasures. I have a caretaker whom I‟ve sent off until I order him back. And I
generally come over once a year or so."
Hoyt dropped his hand, turned. "It‟s changed."
"Change is inevitable. The kitchen‟s been modernized. There‟s
plumbing and electricity. Still it‟s drafty for all that. The bedrooms upstairs
are furnished, so take your choices. I‟m going up to get some sleep."
He started out, glanced back. "Oh, and you can stop the rain if you‟ve
a mind to. King, give me a hand will you, hauling some of this business up?"
"Sure. Very cool digs, if you don‟t mind a little spooky." King hauled
up a chest the way another man might have picked up a briefcase, and headed
up the main stairs.
"Are you all right?" Glenna asked Hoyt.
"I don‟t know what I am." He went to the window, drew back heavy
drapes to look out on the rain-drenched forest. "It‟s here, this place, the
stones set by my ancestors. I‟m grateful for that."
"But they‟re not here. The family you left behind. It‟s hard what
you‟re doing. Harder for you than the rest of us."
"We all share it."
"I left my loft. You left your life." She stepped to him, brushed a kiss
over his cheek. She had thought to offer to fix a hot meal, but saw that what
he needed most just then was solitude.
"I‟m going up, grab a room, a shower and a bed."
He nodded, continued to stare out the window. The rain suited his
mood, but it was best to close the spell. Even when he had, it continued to
rain, but in a fine, misty drizzle. The fog crawled across the ground, twined
around the feet of the rose bushes.
Could they be his mother‟s still? Unlikely, but they were roses, after
all. That would have pleased her. He wondered if in some way having her
sons here again, together, would please her as well.
How could he know? How would he ever know?
He flashed fire into the hearth. It seemed more like home with the fire
snapping. He didn‟t choose to go up, not yet. Later, he thought, he‟d take his
case up to the tower. He‟d make it his own again. Instead he dug out his
cloak, swirled it on and stepped out into the thin summer rain.
He walked toward the stream first where the drenched foxgloves
swayed their heavy bells and the wild orange lilies Nola had particularly
loved spread like spears of flame. There should be flowers in the house, he
thought. He‟d have to gather some before dusk. There had always been
flowers in the house.
He circled around, drawing in the scent of damp air, wet leaves, roses.
His brother kept the place tended; Hoyt couldn‟t fault him for that. He saw
the stables were still there-not the same, but in the same spot. They were
larger than they‟d been, with a jut to one side that boasted a wide door.
He found it locked, so opened it with a focused thought. It opened
upward to reveal a stone floor and some sort of car. Not like the one in New
York, he noted. Not like the cab, or the van they had traveled in from the
airport. This was black and lower to the ground. On its hood was a shining
silver panther. He ran his hands over it.
It puzzled him that there were so many different types of cars in this
world. Different sizes and shapes and colors. If one was efficient and
comfortable, why did they need so many other kinds?
There was a long bench in the area as well, and all manner of
fascinating-looking tools hanging on the wall or layered in the drawers of a
large red chest. He spent some time studying them, and the stack of timber
that had been planed smooth and cut into long lengths.
Tools, he thought, wood, machines, but no life. No grooms, no horses,
no cats slinking about hunting mice. No litter of wriggling pups for Nola to
play with. He closed and locked the door behind him again, moved down the
outside length of the stable.
He wandered into the tack room, comforted somewhat by the scents of
leather and oil. It was well organized, he saw, just as the stall for the car had
been. He ran his hands over a saddle, crouched to examine it, and found it not
so different from the one he‟d used.
He toyed with reins and bridles, and for a moment missed his mare as
he might have missed a lover.
He passed through a door. The stone floor had a slight slope, with two
stalls on one side, one on the other. Fewer than there had been, but larger, he
noted. The wood was smooth and dark. He could smell hay and grain, and...
He moved, quickly now, down the stone floor.
A coal-black stallion stood in the last of three stalls. It gave Hoyt‟s
heart a hard and happy leap to see it. There were still horses after all-and
this one, he noted, was magnificent.
It pawed the ground, laid back its ears when Hoyt opened the stall
door. But he held up both hands, began to croon softly in Irish.
In response, the horse kicked the rear of the stall and blew out a
warning.
"That‟s all right then, that‟s fine. Who could blame you for being
careful with a stranger? But I‟m just here to admire you, to take in your great
handsome self, is all I‟m about. Here, have a sniff why don‟t you? See what
you think. Ah, it‟s a sniff I said, not a nip." With a chuckle, Hoyt drew back
his hand a fraction as the horse bared his teeth.
He continued to speak softly and stand very still with his hand out
while the horse made a show of snorting and pawing. Deciding bribery was
the best tack, Hoyt conjured an apple.
When he saw the interest in the horse‟s eye, he lifted it, took a healthy
bite himself. "Delicious. Would you be wanting some?"
Now the horse stepped forward, sniffed, snorted, then nipped the apple
from Hoyt‟s palm. As he chomped it, he graciously allowed himself to be
stroked.
"I left a horse behind. A fine horse I‟d had for eight years. I called her
Aster, for she had a star shape right here." He stroked two fingers down the
stallion‟s head. "I miss her. I miss it all. For all the wonders of this world, it‟s
hard to be away from what you know."
At length he stepped out of the stall, closed the door behind him. The
rain had stopped so he could hear the murmur of the stream, and the plop of
rain falling from leaf to ground.
Were there still faeries in the woods? he wondered. Playing and
plotting and watching the foibles of man? He was too tired in his mind to
search for them. Too tired in his heart to take the lonely walk to where he
knew his family must be buried.