by Keary Taylor
He glances at me once more, an open expression there that I can’t quite identify. And then he closes the door behind him. Leaving me alone.
Chapter 7
I stand there in the room for a long time, staring at the door. Listening to Cyrus’ footsteps walking away. Hearing him quietly speak with the others.
He’s left me on my own. But I don’t think for one second that all three of them aren’t acutely aware of every one of my movements.
I’m a prisoner. What am I supposed to do with myself?
Still aching from being shackled to a chair all night, and smelling like an auto body shop, I head into the bathroom.
It takes nearly twenty minutes to fill up that giant tub. But finally, it rises to the top, and I climb inside. A sigh escapes my lips as I slide into the hot water, the jets gently blowing massaging strokes over my body.
Don’t think. You don’t have to think right at this moment, I tell myself.
So I close my eyes and just focus on the black of the back of my eyelids.
The water is lukewarm when my head nods and I jerk awake, splashing water all over the floor. I look around, taken over by confusion for a moment. Trying to figure out where the hell I am.
And it all comes crashing back.
Right.
Pulling the drain, I slip out, grabbing a towel hanging on the hook. I marvel at how the entire house was furnished with absolutely everything, just ready for Cyrus and his crew—and me—to walk right in and set up life.
I can only imagine how much it must have cost him.
Going to the closet that Fredrick has already organized, I pull out a pair of shorts and a tank top. Twisting my hair up into a knot at the top of my head, I decide this is as good as it needs to be for now.
I’m not trying to impress anyone.
I stand in front of the bedroom door for a full two minutes. Which is bullshit. Absolute bull.
This is my life. Cyrus, the crazy psycho just stormed into it, making demands, flashing his fangs. Telling me he won’t release Eli until I’m dead.
Okay. I may be his prisoner here. That doesn’t mean I have to be pleasant company in the meantime. That doesn’t mean I can’t take full advantage of my time living in this beautiful house when I was just about to become homeless.
Give him hell.
Yanking the door open, I step out into the hall.
The upstairs sounds quiet as I walk down the hall. My ears strain for sounds, and I hear something downstairs.
The house has transformed since I went into my room. Now, as I walk down the grand stairs, I see that heavy wood shutters have been pulled closed over the windows. They block out nearly all of the late afternoon light outside. The house is nearly dark.
“Hello?” I call, rounding the entryway, being careful to navigate through the dark house.
The sound of a knife cutting stops. “We’re in here.” Fredrick’s choppy English cuts through the dark.
I step into the living area and find Fredrick in the kitchen, working at a rapid pace. The room smells divine. Something with garlic and maybe cilantro. And the smell of flour and eggs.
“I hope you were able to get some rest.”
Cyrus’ voice pulls my eyes to the right. I see him and Mina sitting on the couches, tablets in their hands, numbers and information sprawled across the screens.
“As good as can be expected when you’re a prisoner to a crazy man who says he’s a vampire,” I say. I walk right in and flop down on the couch opposite of where he sits.
Mina mutters something to Cyrus in German and then leaves, Fredrick following after her without a word. Leaving me alone with Cyrus.
I watch them leave. I can’t decide if I feel better or worse with them gone.
“Is that where you’re from?” I ask, folding my legs up under me. “Germany?”
Those dark eyes bore into me. My eyes slowly adjust, dilating so that I can see better in the dim light that creeps in around the shutters. Cyrus’ lips are pressed together in a thin line. He sits with his legs crossed, one arm stretched out across the back of the couch.
He’s been in this house for all of a few hours, yet he seems perfectly at home.
Cyrus seems rather adaptable.
“Austria has been my home for a very long time,” he says. “Though you could say I am rather well traveled. I’ve seen all of the world. Though I will say I’ve been to the States more than I’d prefer in the last little while.”
My throat tightens at that, cracking the hard façade I’m building. I don’t want to think about it, because for my entire life, I’ve trained myself not to wonder, not to worry about it.
But it’s the first place my brain goes.
“Was one of those times because of…her?” I ask. “The one you say I look like?”
Cyrus continues studying me. “There’s no doubt about it, Logan. Alivia Ryan Conrath is your birth mother. I tasted it in your blood. The resemblance is spectacularly obvious. But to answer your question, yes, one of those times was because of her. The last, because of your cousin’s mother.”
My traitorous stomach does a little somersault. “I have a cousin?”
“Oh yes,” Cyrus says with a little smile. “She’ll one day be the leader of the House in the northeast part of this country. Though that’s still some years away. The girl is only ten years old, currently. And if I recall, she also has a younger brother. Though he isn’t a Royal.”
I shake my head.
All these words. He keeps saying all these crazy words.
“I apologize,” Cyrus says. Briefly, he looks away, studying the beautiful home that is now his. But he looks back at me, pinning me with those eyes. “I speak as if you are familiar with our world. You look so much like Alivia, that I forget that she kept you removed from this world.”
“Do you know her well?” I blurt. I actually bite down on my stupid tongue.
I don’t want to wonder.
I don’t want to ask questions.
I love my family. Even if we don’t share blood, I wouldn’t trade them for anything or anyone.
But I keep asking.
Something in Cyrus’ expression darkens. One corner of his upper lip twitches. “Oh, I spent a good deal of time with her.”
“What is she like?” I whisper.
Again, I wonder at the hardness that takes over Cyrus’ face when I mention this woman he says is my biological mother. She can’t be a good person, if someone like him has this kind of reaction to even the mention of her name.
“She’s smart, brave,” Cyrus says. “Also cunning and manipulative. Which makes her very fit for our world. But considering the history between she and I, we both try to avoid one another as much as possible.”
It makes my chest tighten. Cunning. Manipulative. Not positive words.
It makes me look at myself. Would I use those words to describe myself? Did I inherit any of that from her?
“It sounds like maybe you were in love with her,” I say, looking back up at Cyrus.
A little hiss rumbles in his chest and red embers ignite in his eyes. “Your mother led me to believe she was someone she is not, all to try to repair the broken heart her now husband gave her. Alivia knows how to use people to get what she wants and needs.”
I squeeze my eyes closed and shake my head. I hate this. I want to take back the last few questions and get rid of the information I’ve just learned.
Then I could always hope that my biological mother was out there, being a good person. Someone who influenced the world for the better.
Instead, I’m being told about someone who sounds terrible.
“Do you know where she lives?” I ask. Because I can’t stop.
Cyrus doesn’t answer right away. My eyes slide back open, and I find mine fixed on his.
“Are you sure you want the answers to these questions?” Cyrus asks. “Your family’s legacy is a dark and complicated one.”
I swallow once. “That will be the la
st one I ask about her,” I say. “For now.”
Cyrus sighs, but nods. “I suppose it is understandable to wish to know about your bloodline. Perhaps one day we will solve the mystery of who your father is.” He pauses, as if mentally running through who the possibilities are. As if he would know. “Your mother lives in Mississippi, where she is leader of the House of Conrath.”
I shift, drawing one knee up to my chest. “You keep saying that word—House. What does that mean?”
There is a big moment of both of us holding our breath.
This is the meat.
The bigness that’s coming to sweep over me.
I might not yet accept that this is real. But once Cyrus shares this information, I don’t think there’s any going back.
“There are a lot more of us than you might think,” Cyrus says. “We’ve been around for thousands of years. There are generations and generations, families. Wars. With thousands of us around, there has to be some kind of governance. There has to be a system in place to keep our kind a secret.”
He slowly rubs his hands together. There’s weight in the way he speaks. History. As real and tangible as Paul Revere, or Harriet Tubman, or Nero. This is Cyrus’ reality.
“There are twenty-seven Houses throughout the world, spread out by population,” he continues. “There are three kinds of vampires in the world. The Bitten, who are created, by accident usually, when a vampire drinks too much of a human’s blood but does not kill them. The creation of a Bitten has been illegal for several years now, and there hasn’t been one reported in…seven or so years.”
That, in itself right there, sounds like a huge story. A big piece of history that he summed up in just a few sentences.
“And then there are the Born. Common citizens, you might call them.” Cyrus’ fingers roll, forming a fist on his left hand, his knuckles turning white. “And there are the Royal Born. The ones with Royal linage. These are those who are given charge of ruling the world from the shadows. Of keeping our kind—in all their forms—in check.”
I realize I’m leaning forward, listening, on bated breath.
“Here in the United States there are three Houses,” he explains. “Your mother, Alivia, rules the House of Conrath, based in Mississippi. She governs all of the South. Edmond Valdez, who you met last night, is the second son of the ruler of the House of Valdez, based in Las Vegas. The situation in the north east, where your cousin will one day rule, is a bit more complicated until she comes of age.”
“My cousin,” I say. “How is she tied?”
“Your mother, while still human, fell in love with a man who did not realize he was, in fact, a Born.” At my confused expression, he waves a hand. “We’ll get to all of that shortly. But this man, Ian Ward,” again, tightness sounds in his voice. It seems Cyrus’ experiences with everyone in that region are not positive. “Has a younger sister, Elle.”
But at her name, his tone softens. “She wanted to escape the never ending drama Alivia brings with her, so she moved to Boston. There was bad blood between your mother and the ruling family there—the Allaways. Charles Allaway wanted to punish Ian. So he took Elle, and artificially inseminated her. It took. She became pregnant with a Royal heir. She killed Charles Allaway before the child was born. So now, Elle and her husband—I don’t recall his name—are raising her to be the kind of leader they wish her to be.”
So much. So big and so complicated. This world. This family Cyrus claims I am a part of.
“Back to the Houses,” Cyrus changes direction. “There is also a House in Vancouver, which rules over the North West region of the States, as well as western Canada. Every section of the world is divided out, and responsibility given to a family or group of Royal Born.”
“Which is what you say I am,” I clarify. “You say I am one of you, but I don’t have fangs. I’ve never had the strength to rip anyone’s head clean from their shoulders.”
“Because you have not died your first death yet.”
The words settle heavy.
“A Born, common or Royal, is conceived by a human mother and a Born father. But eventually, when that human dies, their vampire DNA is sparked to life. You will lie there, dead for all the world to believe, but in four days’ time, you will Resurrect, as your true self. A Born.”
“Resurrect,” I whisper the word.
Cyrus nods. “We get to experience two deaths. One as a human. And eventually, always under bloody circumstances, as a vampire.”
“Is that supposed to mean vampires are immortal, if it takes violence?”
Cyrus’ lips form a thin line. He nods his head, his eyes dark.
Looking at Cyrus, I search for signs. To my eyes, he appears to only be in his upper twenties. But the way he speaks, the power he wears like a crown, I have to wonder.
“How old are you?”
His expression does not change or give anything away. “Old.”
We stare one another down. Neither giving in. Neither confessing that any of the words spoken in the last twenty minutes are a joke.
But still, I huff a laugh. I shake my head.
“So this is why you say I have to die,” I state, letting my eyes wander the room, not really seeing anything. “Because you will kill me. But after I’m dead, after four days, I’ll wake back up. As a vampire?”
I look back at Cyrus. Still stone serious. He gives a little nod. “Correct.”
Half a breath, I hold it. “And then what?” I ask. “What will be the rules of my new life? What can I expect?”
All this time, Cyrus has not moved a muscle. He still sits with his arm over the back of the couch. The picture of controlled, dangerous perfection.
“You’ll crave blood,” he says. “It was a curse, that we crave the blood of our former kind. It will be…” he draws out. “Difficult to control, for a time. But you’ll also feel incredible. Like your best day of health, times one hundred. You’ll be strong, capable. Never to be ill again. You’ll be fast, nearly indestructible. So long as you avoid stakes and blades.”
I swallow.
Guess some of the stories are true.
Eli was carrying a stake. And how could he know we would run into vampires at the time?
“And the sun will not be your friend,” Cyrus continues. “Your eyes will not be able to handle the direct sun. You will prefer the night. It will feel natural, the change to a nocturnal schedule.”
“And what about my life?” I ask. “When I’m craving the blood of every single person I know? What about my job? My family? If I’m going to want to hurt them, what then?”
Finally, Cyrus moves. He shifts, both of his feet on the floor. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. His dark eyes bore into mine, and I now realize just how much my eyes have adjusted. I see his clearly. They dilate big and wide, taking all of me in.
“That is what these four weeks are for,” he breathes. I hear it in his tone, how difficult giving me those four weeks is. And I still don’t understand why this has to happen now. “For once your human life is over, you will be stepping into a whole new world. A new birthright. And you have no idea the wonders and horrors that await you.”
Without another explanation, he rises and walks to the kitchen, picking over the food Fredrick has been preparing.
And I sit on the couch, feeling utterly lost. Completely overwhelmed.
But something stirs inside of me. Something excited. Something antsy. Something a little deadly.
Chapter 8
The stone walls are glittering.
Like crushed diamonds were mixed into the pressed earth, they sparkle and shine.
I turn, taking in the dim red light that refracts off their surfaces. And as I turn, the space opens up. Wide, so high. Great beams span the air above me. A glittering black chandelier hangs overhead. And from somewhere in the room, beautiful music floats through the space.
Faces. But not faces. All around me. Masks, exposing glowing red eyes.
And I’m surrounded b
y sweeping, swishing fabric.
Men and women float around the room, dressed in opulent finery. Gowns. Suits. Feathers and pearls are splashed here and there.
I step forward, the gown around me swishing softly. Heels click beneath my feet. Soft fabric hugs my face. The tickle of a feather brushes my cheek.
My eyes sweep between dancing couples.
Something in my chest aches.
I take another step forward.
From one corner of the room to the other, my eyes search.
Glowing red. Glistening white.
But instead of fear, I only feel that sense of searching.
Something is missing.
The dancers sweep into a new movement, and a division in the room forms, leaving me standing alone in the center of the room. And there, at the other end of the room, stands a man in an entirely black suit.
A golden mask is affixed to his face. A crown sits atop his head. He stands there, his hands folded in front of him. Those forest night green eyes bore into my soul.
And in my chest there is finally peace.
A puzzle snaps together, all the pieces finally reassembled.
He takes a step toward me, and I feel all the eyes in the room slide to watch.
He takes another. And another.
My body warms as he approaches. And when he stops just a foot in front of me, my heart stops. Decides it no longer needs to keep beating.
I stare into his eyes.
Slowly, he raises his hands, and he takes my mask, and one tiny movement at a time, he lifts it from my face.
My lips fall open slightly, every bit of me waiting. Poised.
“Finally,” he breathes. “After all this time.”
My eyes fly open.
Where just moments ago, my heart stopped, it now races.
My hand slides up to my chest, and it feels hollow.
I look around, confused and disoriented. The massive four-poster bed. The expensive curtains pulled over the window. The open doorway leading to an unfamiliar bathroom.
And I remember.
Three weeks and six days.
It’s how long I have to live.
