Generation V - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

M. L. Brennan lives in Connecticut with her husband and three cats. Holding a master’s degree in fiction, she teaches basic composition to college students. After spending years writing and publishing short work in other genres, Brennan decided to branch out and write the kind of book that she loved to read, resulting in Generation V, her first full-length work of urban fantasy.

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Chapter 1

I knew the moment that my brother, Chivalry, walked into the coffee shop. I always know whenever a member of my family is around. I’m not sure whether it’s because we’re family or because we’re vampires, be¬cause I’ve never met a vampire I’m not related to.

But even if I hadn’t been able to sense Chivalry with a bone–deep certainty, I would’ve known by the way that Tamara at the register and my boss, Jeanine, suddenly snapped to attention. Two of the buttons on Jeanine’s blouse came undone with a speed that I’ve never seen her demonstrate in any of her administrative duties. Ta¬mara’s top was already pretty low, but she leaned down over the counter in a way that now had her very ample breasts spilling out in a manner that I was certain the Health Department would find concerning. I was able to observe all of this from my crouched position behind the counter, where I’d been retrieving more stacks of paper cups. I occupy the low end of the totem pole of power at the unfortunately named Busy Beans coffee shop, which managed to remain marginally profitable despite grimy floors, hard scones, and truly terrible coffee owing en¬tirely to the free wireless connection and the high level

of chain–store–eschewing college dissidents in Provi¬dence. It was the latest in the series of crappy jobs I’d held since graduating from college with a degree in the shockingly unemployable field of film theory.

I stood up, paper cups in hand, and watched my brother move through the crowd of ironic cardigans, horn–rimmed glasses, and vintage dresses. Heads were turning, and the hum of conversations dimmed as every¬one looked him over. Even with all eyes on him, though, Chivalry seemed completely unaffected, letting the adu¬lation of women and envy of men roll off him with com¬plete aplomb. Just over six feet tall, with perfectly tousled chestnut hair and chiseled good looks that would’ve made a casting agent weep, Chivalry wore black slacks, a white collared shirt, and a perfectly tai¬lored dark car–length jacket, all designer. He had just enough of a tan to suggest a life lived outdoors, but not so much that he looked like he spent all day lazing on the beach. He looked expensive, restrained, and capable of seducing every woman in the coffee shop.

I, on the other hand, was cringingly aware of my ratty jeans from Walmart, the tomato sauce stain on my T–shirt, and the duct tape that I’d used to reattach the sole of my left sneaker this morning, all topped off with a green Busy Beans apron that did not do wonders for my ego. My hair is a bit darker than Chivalry’s, and prone to sticking up in weird little tufts no matter how much hair gel I use in the mornings. Height that is im¬posing and impressive on Chivalry is gawky and awk¬ward on me, and my face is forgettable at best. I’d once been with my girlfriend, Beth, when we were looking for some friends of hers we were supposed to meet up with, and had reached the level of cell phone calls along the lines of “Do you see the blue sign? We’re standing right under it,” and Beth had finally said, “Look for the tall, average–looking guy.” That had been about a month be¬fore she’d suggested that it would be good for our rela¬tionship if she had sex with other people.

If Chivalry looked like someone who could put on pancake makeup and play a vampire in a movie, I looked like the guy who’d be fetching that guy coffee. Of course, Chivalry actually is a vampire—I’m still just mostly a vampire. As my family is always reminding me, I have a lot of human left.

By now Chivalry was at the counter and placing an order for a hazelnut cappuccino. He was smiling politely at Tamara and looking completely unaffected by her borderline toplessness, much to her apparent frustration as she managed to lean over even farther, with the result that two men seated at tables behind Chivalry but with good eye–lines to the counter choked on their drinks, and one unlucky guy spilled coffee all over himself. Chivalry didn’t so much as glance below her collarbone. I felt a little bad for Tamara, despite her tendency to leave me stuck with all the cleanup work. The elegant but extremely expensive wedding ring on Chivalry’s left hand meant that Tamara could strip down right in front of him, beg him to take her, and Chivalry probably wouldn’t even blink as he strolled away.

Now Chivalry was smiling at Jeanine and politely greeting her. “What a great little coffee place,” he said, prompting preening. “I just stopped by to say hello to my younger brother.”

Now everyone was staring at me—my coworkers with

shock that I could be related to this god among men, and my brother with that calm steadiness that made me squirm inside at the memory of the sixteen calls of Chivalry’s that I’d dodged over the last month and a half. Nothing in Chiv¬alry’s face suggested that he was pissed off at having to trot his thousand–dollar shoes into one of the mangier areas of Providence and over what was certainly one of its most disgusting floors to track down a brother who was avoiding him. I felt that very familiar sensation of gut–wrenching guilt and embarrassment that was my almost constant companion when I was with my brother.

“Hi, Chiv,” I said lamely.

“Hello, Fortitude,” Chivalry said, his voice grave and calm. “Would it be possible to have a word with you be¬fore you return to your”—and just the slightest flick of a glance to the collection of coffee bags, filters, and paper cups that lined the soiled workstation—“endeavors?”

I felt color creeping up my neck. The madder Chiv¬alry was, the more he tended to show his age. Chivalry might look like he was in his early thirties, but he’d been born just as the Civil War was winding down. When he forgot himself, Chivalry sounded like a soldier’s letter home read in a Ken Burns special.At twenty–six, I’m not an infant compared to him—I’m a fetus.

“Fort, you bad boy,” Jeanine cooed, giving me a swat that might’ve looked playful but still packed some punch. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned that you have an older brother?”The unspoken stud muffin part of her statement hung in the air. “And”—here she turned to Chivalry, giving him a full–on eyelash batting—“of course Fort can take a break and talk to you. The little darling has been on his feet all day.”

That was laying it on a bit thick, I thought, but I wasn’t going to turn down a break, especially since Jeanine was usually of the thankless–taskmaster school of manage¬ment. While I walked around the counter, ignoring Ta¬mara’s glare of death, I watched while Jeanine leaned even farther toward Chivalry on the pretext of giving him a little pat on the chest. She failed to notice when Chivalry’s expression went from glacially polite to frig¬idly homicidal. Of course, she wasn’t the one who was going to have to deal with it—I was.

I picked a table as far away from the register as pos¬sible, and even as I waited for the ass–ripping to follow as Chivalry settled himself in front of me, I couldn’t re¬sist giving a little grunt of pleasure at the sensation of sitting. Jeanine didn’t allow stools behind the counter, even during slow days, and my sneakers were so worn down that I could actually feel the curling edges of lino¬leum through my soles.

Chivalry...