Crimson Moon

by J. A. Saare

  We went through the back of the manor, past the storage shelves and into the smaller kitchen. I walked to the stainless steel fridge to snag a coke, taking a seat on the bar stool next to the squared island. Trent leaned on the counter across from me, watching as I cracked open the can, drinking it down.

  I covered a soft belch with my fingers.

  "That's so attractive,” Trent cooed, cracking a smile.

  "I know you love it,” I antagonized, taking another heaping gulp. Maybe that was part of his attraction. I didn't give a shit if he found me impossibly beautiful or incredibly disgusting.

  "So, about that dinner, there is a quaint little place I'd like to take you off the coast.” He smiled at me, blue-green eyes working their magic. “There will be a live pianist, a dance floor, and it's exclusively private."

  "Oh no.” I threw my head back, groaning in exasperation. “Don't do this again!"

  "Do what?” Mom asked as she drifted into the room, elegant as always.

  Her long hair was clipped off her face, tumbling down her back in thick waves. She was casual today, in jeans and a sweater. Normally, she wore flowing dresses or slacks. Dad insisted she never overcame her hippy phase. I still found myself shocked in her presence. Her youth, so like to my own, was merely clever facade.

  "Entice our girl to have dinner with me.” Trent attempted to sway Mom to his side, smiling sweetly and flashing those electric blues. “I promise to have her home before the sun comes up."

  "Trent,” she warned, eyes darkening. “You know that she has enough stress right now without you badgering her as well."

  "It appears I'm outnumbered,” he growled playfully, turning away from the counter and walking out of the kitchen. I listened to his steps on the stone floor as they faded, relaxing when they were no longer evident.

  "Has there been any word from Dad?” I inquired, sipping my near empty can of coke.

  "He will arrive home this evening,” she answered, sounding both relieved and concerned.

  "Maybe he didn't have to do anything this time,” I offered somberly, keeping the hope detached from my voice.

  I knew she both dreaded and anticipated his arrivals home because it was such a mixed bag. She never knew which man would be coming back to her. It could be the sweet and gentle one she loved, or the bitter and tormented one who'd just assaulted someone in the worst ways imaginable.

  "I hope so,” she acknowledged, sliding in across from me, her fingers gently brushing my arm. She touched me often, to make sure I was really there, she said. She didn't have any special talents or powers, just Mother's intuition, and that was all she needed.

  "You miss him still?” She touched my hand again, pulling away just as quickly.

  "It's getting easier,” I lied, aware of whom she spoke. “I'm taking it one day at a time."

  "I know how it feels, Emma.” Her brows creased in sympathy. “If you feel this way, maybe you should consider what we discussed before."

  Easier said than done.

  Sure I could fly back and track Caleb down, demanding an explanation delivered directly to my face instead of the cold shoulder he had provided. It sounded like one hell of a plan at first. Then a nasty little something called my pride got in the way.

  I could go and confront him, but what if he said the same thing? Would it provide closure to have my frail emotions trampled even worse, just to prove a point? I didn't know if I could take that kind of heart break again.

  It was bad enough the first time around.

  "I have thought about it, and I just don't know what good would come from the trip. He wouldn't even answer the phone to speak to me when I called. Think about it, what would he do if I suddenly showed up? Do you think he'd welcome me with open arms and proclaim his love and undying devotion? He'd probably slam the door in my face or run away so that I couldn't find him."

  "You won't know for certain unless you try. I did the same thing for you, cutting your Father out of my life even though I didn't want to. You said yourself that he believes he's protecting you. Love drives people to do strange things sometimes."

  "You don't leave the people you love,” I rasped in frustration, plopping the can onto the counter. “And what protection did he think he was offering? He abandoned me with people I didn't even know. I could understand if he had talked to me or tried to explain, but he didn't. He just cut me completely from his life."

  "Maybe he can't talk to you because it's too painful for him. Just because he acts as if he's not hurting, it doesn't mean he isn't. Emotions are easier to hide than they are to suppress. Why don't you call Sarah? Speak to her about all of this and tell her how you feel, Emma."

  "Sarah resents being forced in the middle of the situation.” I shook my head. “And it's not her place to explain. Besides, she's still working for Sam. She only sees Caleb whenever they drop by Haven's."

  "I see.” Mom didn't say more, smiling reassuringly but giving me space.

  "Why are you rooting for Caleb, anyway?” I asked expectantly, meeting her lovely green eyes. “I thought you wanted me here with you and Dad. And I know how the two of you feel about Trent. Wouldn't it be easier if you persuaded me to stick around here and forget about the terrible guy back home that broke my heart?"

  "Because I love you.” She placed her cool hand atop mine, flashing that megawatt smile. “And I want you to be happy above all. That is my wish for you, to be happy."

  "It's not good.” Trent's voice popped into my head as I sat on the floor of the closet, sorting through various shirts and sweaters.

  I scampered into the bedroom. The sun had nearly set, casting an orange glow outside my window. I walked to the glass, peering down. I could see the car in the drive, Dad's head and body coming into view as he climbed from the back. Trent wasn't exaggerating, he looked terrible. His hair was muddled and untidy, as were his clothes. His pinstriped tie was hanging loosely around his neck, his jacket tossed carelessly over the arm holding his suitcase. His shoulders drooped in a downward angle, his chin burrowed onto his chest.

  I turned from the glass, walking out of my bedroom. I cornered the staircase and came down, taking each step slowly. Mom was ahead of me, waiting in front of the door at the foot of the stairs.

  Dad didn't bother looking up as he entered, staring at his feet. I waited for what was coming, having become accustomed to it in recent weeks. He walked to Mom, kissed her quickly on the cheek and hooked a left into the study. He would hit the brandy and he would hit it hard. I was grateful vampires had some respite from the dredges of their life—be it liquor or cigars—when their homecoming was so wretched and bleak.

  This was one of many reasons I hesitated when the topic of change was broached. Watching Dad after one of his trips told me enough about the kind of people we were related to.

  The kind of people I would be indebted to.

  I watched Mom as she followed several paces behind, closing the door as they entered the study. This was the price they paid to be together. Dad never once complained, never blaming her for his punishment. But he couldn't act as if the damage he rendered didn't etch into his soul. It chipped away at him each time. His face might remain forever young, but the truth was always there in his tormented eyes.

  Whenever someone was suspected of any offense against the vampire houses they were brought to see the enforcer. He would dig inside the subconscious, into those deeply guarded recesses of the mind, looking for their biggest fears and nightmares. Once he had them, he would instruct my Father, forcing him to reenact them mentally—making the person believe they were on fire, that their children were dead or being slowly chopped to pieces.

  And the poor bastards thought all of it was real; the pain was actual pain, dished out to their brainwashed minds, until they were nothing more than a hollow shell. This was his punishment, and my Mother felt completely responsible every single time he came through that door after a job.

  "What did they make him do this time?” I thought to Trent, fe
eling morbid for even considering what harm he had wrought. In some strange way, I believed I could shoulder some of my Dad's pain if I knew what he had done.

  "You don't want to know, Emma, and I honestly don't want to tell you.” Trent sounded disgusted.

  "Was it a loved one?"

  "Yes.” He didn't elaborate.

  Fury nearly overcame me. Dad would be out of it for days. The best way to break victims down was to use their family against them. He would have to visualize each cut, broken bone and scream, constructing it all inside his head, creating a carefully manufactured symphony of blood and pain before forcing it into the head of someone else.

  Knowing it didn't actually occur didn't make the visual images any easier to bear.

  I returned to my room, reclining at the edge of the bed. The night time was the most difficult, completely alone with my overactive brain kicking into overdrive. Maybe I should call Sarah. It had been two weeks since we'd last spoken. Maybe something had changed...or maybe I was afraid nothing had changed at all.

  I fell back; arms limp above my head, feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. All of this indecision was going to age me prematurely—which would be fine if I decided to join the home team.

  "Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, annoyed with myself.

  I rolled off the bed and went into the closet, facing the clothes strewn about. I got down on hands and knees, wading through the mess, forcing myself not to become overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of garments covering the floor. I considered making a pile in the corner, tossing all of the shirts and sweaters together and jumping into it like raked fall leaves.

  "Do it."

  I gasped, a scream lodged in my throat, and whipped my head around.

  Trent was lounged in the doorway, studying me, lips curved into the slightest amused grin. He looked amazing in matching black slacks and a form fitted turtleneck, his muscled shoulders outlined perfectly under the thin material. His blond hair and twinkling eyes gleamed in the light.

  "Don't do that!” I scowled before breaking into a nervous smile. “You scared the bejezus out of me."

  He arched one of his dark eyebrows, a smile forming. “Bejezus? Is that even a word?"

  "Sure, it's in the Emmster's dictionary,” I teased, my heart returning to a normal rhythm.

  He stood straight, walking into the closet and picking up a random shirt, tossing it at me. I caught it in the chest, grabbing the thin cotton by the sleeves and straightening the material before laying it atop the augmenting pile.

  "What are you doing in here anyway?” He glanced around the closet, shaking his head.

  "I'm trying to organize my shirts and sweaters. Everything is clumped together, and I can't find anything because I have too many clothes. If it stays the way it is, I'll never be able to find the shirts I actually like."

  "And this.” He motioned with his hand to the piles. “Is a better way to locate that special sweater or shirt?"

  "No one like's a smart ass, Trent.” I narrowed my eyes, attempting to look serious. Unfortunately, he read my mind again, ruining the entire effect.

  He chuckled, coming to sit beside me. I noticed the faint blush on his cheeks. His color more distinct, making him even more breathtakingly beautiful. He had obviously fed before he came to my room.

  I knew they had to drink, I just didn't ask for details. I wondered who he had gotten the blood from. Maybe they bought blood in a bottle and drank it that way—anything was possible.

  "Of course we don't drink blood from bottles,” Trent laughed, shaking his head in amusement, “You think up the most fantastical ideas, Emma."

  Then how do you get it? The thought popped into my brain and I wanted to slap myself.

  "Tonight, it was donated by Matilda. If you must know,” he informed me.

  "Matilda?” I gasped in disbelief, absolutely mortified. “You took blood from the maid?"

  "Technically, she works for the house, and blood donation is a minor part of the job. I would have preferred to wait, but as I cannot leave until you do, I'm forced to make do."

  As usual, questions created a gambit inside my brain. He heard them all, choosing specific ones to answer at random.

  "No, she doesn't mind, and no, I'm not attracted to her like that. And of course your parents don't use her or any other servant in this house for sustenance. Your Father has to feed, of course, but he takes care of your Mother. She's aware of his...eating habits. Vampire blood is equally sustaining, even more so when it's a trueblood. She can thrive quite well on his blood alone."

  Picturing my parents drinking blood was an image I did not want in my brain. I shoved it aside, narrowing my eyes at him as he crawled over on his hands and knees.

  "No, it doesn't hurt,” he whispered enticingly against my ear. “When you want try for yourself, let me know."

  "Stop aggravating me,” I grumbled, reaching past his face to yank another shirt off the floor, adding it to the ever growing stack. He was incorrigible and persistent, teetering on the edge of pesky.

  "I'll remain just as pesky until you give me a chance,” he whispered threateningly. “I have forever, you know."

  "Will you ever stop doing that?” I looked up, hands resting on the sweater in my lap.

  I sighed and shook my head, lowering my eyes. He already knew what I would say but I spoke the words aloud anyway. “You know why I can't. You know how I feel about things. I don't have it in me to give, not anymore. I'm beginning to wonder if you're some sort of emotional masochist."

  "I'm a realist,” he corrected. “Whether you want to accept it or not, Caleb is gone, Emma, and he's not going to come knocking on the door. He made his decision, and given the time that has lapsed, he seems set upon it. I think he's an absolute sod and an idiot to boot, but that is neither here nor there. If he wishes to be moronic, I will simply step forward and treasure that which he has so foolishly cast aside. You can still be happy, if you only allow yourself to try."

  "You sound like my Mother,” I mumbled, meeting his gaze. “Why me, Trent, seriously? You could have any woman in the world you want. I've seen the way women look at you. The way they react when you're around. It isn't that I'm not flattered, trust me. But I don't get it. I just don't."

  "Because when I'm around you, I feel as I did when I was human. You evoke all of the passions and emotions I thought long dormant. I haven't felt this way in over a hundred years,” he confessed thickly.

  "You better be careful,” I joked, trying to conceal my feelings about his confession, “Your age is showing."

  He chuckled and smiled. “That is what I'm talking about. I don't remember the last time I laughed until I met you and your warped sense of humor.” His face turned serious, rhythmical voice rich and heavy. “Now that I remember what it means to feel, I know any emotion is better than the blank slate I experienced prior to your coming here. You brought so much joy back to me. I would keep you at my side forever if you would allow it."

  I didn't bother trying to stop my thinking. I felt uncomfortable and exalted by his words. The strangest juxtapose of feelings. Things would be so different had Trent arrived outside of Joe's to find me, then it would be easy. There would be nothing to compare things to, a fresh start. Having those memories of Caleb and I, that rush that came when I replayed our moments alone together, held me back.

  Trent slid in front of me, remaining utterly still, his face so close it nearly touched my own. His eyes were vivid aqua, flashing bright blue-green in the light; a dark black ring around the edge of the iris. His hand lifted, cool fingers caressing my face in gentle strokes.

  "It's not a level playing field, comparing me to him. Not until I give you memories of my own. Let me give you memories of my own, Emma, please."

  I could have pulled away; he would have let me. I could have told him no, either out loud or inside my mind, and he would have listened. But I didn't. I was exhausted from battling myself and the way I felt about him. He was right, I did deserve ha
ppiness.

  My right hand came up, touching the silky smooth skin on his neck. His white blond hair was so incredibly soft, just long enough that my fingers could trace along the wispy strands in back. I grazed my fingers along his skin, touching his smooth cheek before dropping my hand back into my lap.

  "Okay,” I relented, watching as his lips curved into a smile.

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  Chapter 21—Decisions

  Trent was true to his word. Muirelle's was quaint and quiet, nestled in a completely private and unknown location. It was fitting, considering my parents and Trent owned the place and used it on the rare occasion they were entertaining guests from abroad.

  I wasn't sure what lengths Trent had went to for the sake of impression, but there was a waitress, a pianist, and a chef—all awaiting instruction. I ordered something simple to eat so I wouldn't make a mess, steak and oatmeal potatoes.

  I dressed for simplicity when preparing for dinner, choosing a spaghetti strapped black dress that hung loosely at the knee with a cream colored cardigan. I found matching shoes and accessories for everything inside the monstrosity of a closet attached to my bedroom. The heels on the shoes were the worst—I'd only worn high heels during prom and graduation—and I remained unsteady on my feet.

  Thankfully, my hair cooperated. Mom helped me tame the curls into a twist on top of my head, the long waves spilling down, creating a cascade of mahogany. She also did my make-up, keeping things understated and elegant.

  Trent had been gawking since the car came around to take us off and I distracted him by asking questions. He was much older than my Father, his history vast and intricate. I couldn't believe he was one-hundred thirty-two years old. He'd been changed when he was only twenty-nine, finding out just as I did about our family legacy. Having been born in England, he fought in both world wars, moving to the states after.

  Due to his special talent, he was offered a position by several of the vampire houses. They needed someone they could trust to ensure the werewolf packs held to their end of the bargain—protecting blood relatives abroad. Trent would know if anything wasn't right, considering he could read minds.