Page Seven

There was something about watching this that kept Caelan transfixed, his vampire eyes following the pair as they traded kicks and punches and swiped at each other with the glinting steel in their hands.

Any other parent wouldn’t have even considered training with his son; Onyx had flat-out refused when Caelan had simply broached the topic. He’d thought that Jordan was insane. Until he saw Zeke duelling, that was. There had been something in Onyx’s eyes that day that worried Caelan; it had been as if Onyx was looking at him as a possible Brother. It would be another twelve years until Zeke would be defined as an adult; it was the same with every vampire. At the age of twenty-five you were considered old enough to give you free reign throughout the world; you could mate, you could attend meetings of court, you could sign up for the military, and you could join the Brotherhood.

But Onyx had looked at the fourteen year old boy as if he was already worthy of the honour.

It would have ticked anyone else off, but it just scared Caelan.

At this moment though, the two boys were lying on top of the covers of Zeke’s twin bed. The room had changed a lot in the last few years: the bright walls were now a dark blue because Jordan hadn’t allowed Zeke to paint them black; the once neat desk was messy and things were just strewn everywhere; the walls had been practically bare once but now they were covered in film posters and posters of music artists that Zeke liked; the map of the world had been replaced by a large TV on top of the chest of drawers, a stereo beside it with a stack of CDs on the floor. The thing that had changed the most though, was the boy lying beside him.

Zeke had once been a kind, sweet boy, with neat hair. Now though, he was violent, aggressive, sadistic, and his hair was spiked up with gel. Caelan had begged him not to dye his hair, like he’d planned; there was just something about the mint colour of it that he loved. He hadn’t been able to bare seeing Zeke about to destroy it.

Zeke was currently throwing small knives at the door that led to his en suite. From the state of the wood, this was a common occurrence.

Caelan watched Zeke’s face silently; he was deep in thought, only snapping out of it when he had no more knives to throw. He stood and went over to the door, pulling the knives out. He didn’t return, simply placing the blades on his desk. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

I want to do that, a small part of Caelan’s mind whispered, shocking him; did he seriously just have the urge to run his hands through Zeke’s hair?

The End

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