Nick was grateful to finally be off the mountain. No more problems with Antediluvians, Abbotts, starving vampires, wolves, nightmares, or Cave Bricky. At least, he was hopeful. With luck, they wouldn’t be too much further delayed in getting home. They’d been gone a month already, and he didn’t know what issues they would run into trying to get home. Heading back to Ankara and Istanbul, they had a vague idea of what they might be able to expect. But further into Sabbat territory? That was more of a mystery.
He had an order in which he wanted to do things when they got back to Keysari – hotel, shower, and feed. His luck had been poor, and he hadn’t wanted to take from Tony, but he needed to, and he hadn’t wanted to stop. He valued Tony, and didn’t want to hurt him, so he’d managed to muster up the willpower to stop, and not take too much. Tony needed to rest a couple of days in theory, as did Sierra. In fact, he thought he might suggest staying in Keysari for an extra night or two, to give everyone some time to rest and recover before moving on, if possible.
One thing he was determined to avoid discussing, at least for now, however, was confronting the horrors that had been haunting him. The nightmares of kindred history were gruesome, and the unsettling visions of the circus, laced with sinister undertones, had disturbed him. He couldn’t fathom why he’d had those dreams in the first place, though part of him suspected Cappadocius might have played a role. Still, he had no way to confirm it, and probably never would.
The worst part, by far, was the memories of his fallen comrades: Drew, Zack, and Jeremy. They had been good men and loyal soldiers, and he had been unable to save them. Drew was shot dead before his eyes while they played cards – the same day Nick found himself trapped under rubble. Jeremy perished in the mine explosion that claimed Nick’s knee. And Zack’s death was the hardest to bear. Nick had tried to save him, extinguishing the flames that consumed him, but Zack’s injuries were too severe, and the burns proved fatal. They had all accused him of failing them.
He had been coaxed to drink. A flask appeared before him, its whiskey gleaming within, the scent tantalizingly familiar. The craving hit him hard, primal and urgent. Yet, deep down, he knew it wasn’t real. They had coaxed him, pushed him, prodded him to drink. He resisted at firs, but eventually reached for the flask. It felt solid in his hands, so real that he began to wonder—if it was tangible, could the whiskey inside be real too? Would it glide smoothly down his throat, delivering that familiar burn and warmth? Or would it turn to ash, leaving him gagging and empty?
That moment of near surrender haunted him. It wasn’t just the temptation that hurt—it was the realization that he might not have truly conquered his addiction. Perhaps it wasn’t strength or resolve keeping him sober, but the stark reality of his new existence, one where food and drink were no longer options. He hadn’t been out of rehab long before being embraced, after all. He hadn’t been out of rehab for long when he’d been embraced, after all.
He closed his eyes as he lay in the tent, waiting for sleep to claim him, knowing he should talk to someone. Just… not now.
The drink wasn’t the only thing they had used against him. His fallen comrades taunted him with other urges too—Alyssa, and the dark, insidious pressure to diablerize Tavi and Vince. Tavi was off-limits; he had made that clear to himself. But Vince? When they whispered Vince’s name, he couldn’t ignore the echo of Tavi’s dream: Vince sprawled on the floor, surrounded by the Fledglings.
Nick rolled over with a soft sigh. He didn’t want to feel this way—it was unsettling and gnawed at him persistently. Sooner or later, others would notice that something was troubling him. The only question was, who would he trust enough to talk to when the time came?