The Power and the Glory

Book 4 Chapter V: Paranoia

He smiled again. This time it was practically a snarl. "Is that what you think? That I'm suicidal? That would be an easy way to get rid of me, wouldn't it? Tell Mother what you think and she'd have me sent to some hospital for my own safety. You'd never have to think about me again."

Once again Gilreon glared at him. "I don't want to get rid of you! I want to know what's wrong with you! If there's some way I can help--"

Help? Him? Imrahil almost laughed. Gilreon had always hated him, always been suspicious of him, even back when there was no reason to be. Now he claimed he wanted to help? No. He could lie as much as he wanted but Imrahil could see through him. Poor, poor Gilreon. His father was dead and his parents' marriage was of dubious legitimacy. He was next door to a bastard. And then there was Imrahil. Unquestionably legitimate, the undisputed heir, and as far as older relatives knew he was almost perfect. No wonder Gilreon hated him. No wonder he had spent Imrahil's entire childhood and adolescence waiting for him to make a mistake and fall from grace. No, it was impossible that Gilreon wanted to help.

Quietly and slowly he said, "I don't need help. There is nothing wrong with me. I made a stupid mistake and it will never happen again. Do you understand?"

Gilreon actually recoiled. He stared at Imrahil in horror. "Your eyes..."

Imrahil looked at the mirror. He was just in time to see something -- a shadow, or a colour that had never been there before -- leave his eyes before he could get a good look at it. He blinked. Strange. That had never happened before.

Gilreon continued to stare at him as if he'd seen a ghost. He turned abruptly and stormed out of the bathroom. Imrahil watched him go then studied his reflection again. Whatever had happened to his eyes didn't happen again.

He picked up the hairbrush again and resumed brushing his hair. He brushed it more fiercely than usual, darkly imagining ways to make Gilreon leave him alone once and for all. When he was finished he looked at the strands of hair caught in the brush. There were far more of them than usual. Imrahil was mildly surprised to realise he had brushed his hair so roughly that he'd torn out some of it. Even he should have felt some pain when that happened. But he felt nothing at all.

~~~~

From then on Imrahil watched Gilreon as intently as Gilreon had watched him. He especially watched his interactions with Hartanna and Mihasrin, just in case he decided to say something that would raise questions about Imrahil. His parents didn't notice anything odd about him suddenly following Gilreon around when they had never been close before. But then his parents had never been good at noticing anything about Imrahil.

"It's good you're becoming better friends," Hartanna told them one day.

Imrahil smiled innocently. Gilreon made an attempt at something that could barely be called a smile.

As weeks passed and this continued Gilreon became more and more nervous. The more nervous he became, the more suspicious Imrahil became. It was obvious to him that Gilreon must be planning something that he didn't want Imrahil to find out about.

A little voice at the back of his mind tried to warn him that he was behaving irrationally, that he had no proof and no reason to believe Gilreon was plotting against him, and if he continued acting like this he would at best make a fool of himself and at worst permanently destroy the image he'd worked so hard to create for himself. But he didn't listen. It was as if someone was constantly whispering in his ear, convincing him that Gilreon was a threat and he needed to defend himself.

All his life Imrahil had felt a strange... not exactly hunger or thirst, but something that was both of them at once when he saw an immortal's blood. He had always ignored it before. No matter what else he was, he was not a vampire and he wasn't going to become one. But at some point after meeting Death he realised he was hungry all the time. His mouth was constantly dry. It didn't matter how much he drank; he could never make the thirst go away.