by Joy Demorra
Nathan, still staring up at the vampire (and rather enjoying the view), blinked and stiffly rose to his feet. Perhaps the journey to get here had taken more out of him than he’d realized.
The vampire jerked his head toward the door where Fiddildy was already exiting. “Come on, I’ll show you a shortcut.”
“Oh, err, that’s all right,” Nathan began, his equilibrium thrown when he realized the vampire was intending to personally escort him to his new residence. “I’m sure I can find the way if—”
“Nonsense.” The Viscount dismissed him with a casual wave of his hand. “Trust me, you’re doing me a favor. Any moment I can scrape free from the Floral Arranging Committee is to be cherished.”
“Sounds terrible,” Nathan agreed, his heart fluttering queerly when the vampire laughed.
Coming to a halt outside another set of double doors, the Viscount rested his hand on the brass knob. “You don’t know the Collins girls,” he replied. “But don’t worry, you will soon enough. Are you claustrophobic?”
The abrupt change in subject took Nathan by surprise. “Uh, I don’t think so.”
“Well, we’re about to find out,” the vampire said with faux joviality. He opened the door to reveal what appeared to be at first glance an empty room. “After you.”
The floor felt oddly buoyant under his feet, and Nathan looked up. “You have an ascension room.” Peering around, he could make out the carefully concealed pulley mechanism that kept the room suspended in the air. “I’ve only ever seen these in Steocidell.”
“I’m not surprised. For all our advancements, the Nevrondian Empire is woefully behind some other parts of the world. Mind the walls,” the Viscount said as he stepped into the room and drew the inner cage door shut.
Reaching out, he pulled a brass lever sticking out of the wall. The clanking and whirring of weights and mechanisms turning over became loud to even Nathan’s hampered hearing as they descended.
Speaking above the noise, the Viscount said, “I dare say you’ll find your way around the castle in no time.” Nathan tilted his head and leaned in closer to hear him. “But in the meantime, don’t be afraid to ask one of the thralls if you get turned around. I swear the people who built this place thought they were building a labyrinth. Dead ends. Secret passages everywhere. Doors that go nowhere. That kind of thing. Ah, here we are.”
The contraption came to a juddering halt, the cage door springing free of its mechanism with finger-snatching alacrity. Stepping through the door into a dim corridor, the vampire said, “Just down this way. It’s actually next to the castle dungeons, though those are mostly used for storage now. And you can get to the guardhouse that way.” He pointed to the far end of the corridor. There were no quartz lamps here, just the familiar warm glow of torches creating pools of unsteady light against the stone walls. “So you won’t have to go through the whole castle to get back out. Ah, here we are.” He paused outside a sturdy door and withdrew another set of keys from the inside of his jacket; the lock turned over with a reassuringly loud thunk as the heavy door swung inward. “After you.”
Nathan stepped inside and looked around. It was modest, to be sure, clean and simply furnished as though it had recently been made ready. It was hardly the opulent grandeur he’d glimpsed on the upper floors. But it was warm and dry—surprisingly so for the age of the castle—and that was more than Nathan could say for many of the places he’d called home in the past. He turned to find the vampire—Vlad, he reminded himself—leaning around the corner of the door to peer inside but not actually stepping over the threshold.
“It’s not much, I’m afraid…” He shrugged apologetically.
“Thank you. It’s more than I was expecting,” Nathan countered. When the vampire continued to linger, Nathan cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of what to say next.
“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to get settled.” Vlad flashed another one of those devastatingly handsome grins in Nathan’s direction. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Scream if you need anything,” he called, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he pulled the door shut behind him. “There’s always someone about.”
Nathan waited for several seconds, then threw the bolts in place and leaned back against the door heavily. His face felt like it was on fire, and there was a pleasant heat churning low in the pit of his stomach. He sighed explosively, letting his head tip back on his shoulders, wincing when it thudded against the door. He’d always had a weakness for a pretty face, but the Gods were testing him with this one. It’ll be fine, Nathan assured himself. It wasn’t as though he’d be forced to socialize with the man. He’d just have to talk to him once a week for the next few years and try not to think about all the unspeakable things the vampire’s smile made Nathan want to do to him.
It was fine.
Nathan thumped his head back against the door again and groaned. “Gods, I’m fucked…”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Still Later Spring, 1888
Opposite the guardhouse, a large group of onlookers congregated including several shopkeepers, children, and general passers-by. They watched with interest as Corporal Irian climbed a rickety ladder, a bucket and scrub brush in hand. They were attempting to remove several years’ worth of salt rock deposit from the iron lantern above the door with limited success. After a while, they gave up and pulled out a hammer and chisel instead.
Nearby, a collection of the island’s residents, both mundane and supernatural, gathered at the teahouse for lunch under the guise of discussing the floral arrangements for the upcoming May Ball. But the true purpose of their early luncheon was to catch a glimpse of the new Guard Captain, rumored to have pointy ears, sharp fangs, and a fearsome set of claws that could tear a man apart. For a populace well acquainted with vampires, this was less a point of concern, and secondary to the reports that he was tall, ruggedly handsome—and as far as the frantically churning rumor-mills of the island could yet determine, romantically unattached.
“Well, it’s about time,” the Young Widow Sarah proclaimed firmly, and a chorus of murmured agreements sounded from around the table.
It had indeed been quite some time since the guardhouse had looked so respectable. The glass window panes gleamed like silver in the sunlight, and the stone steps were so thoroughly swept and scrubbed you could eat your dinner off them if the notion took you.
“Very particular about hygiene, your average werewolf,” Noriann, the cute, freckled selkie and proprietor of the town’s thriving saltwater taffy stall added. Spreading their skirts out, they sank into the chair next to Mx. Addams and batted unnaturally large eyes at the apprentice witch. “He’s a rare one too. Not many werewolves with blue eyes.”
Draped entirely in black lace and hiding their features under a black sunhat, Mx. Addams scooted a little closer than was strictly necessary to ask, “How do you know?”
“We hear things out on the sea,” the doll-like selkie replied. “My granddad used to tell me stories of them. They’re more fae magic than wolves.”
“What else did he tell you?” Margaret flicked her short blue hair out of her ethereal eyes. As town’s best seamstress, and also one of their many resident ghosts, she’d been on the Floral Arranging Committee since its inception, and positively lived for gossip. In a manner of speaking.
“Does it matter? We all have our ways,” the Young Widow Sarah sniffed. Reaching under her conical witches hat, she pulled out a pair of comically small opera glasses and aimed them at the guardhouse. “I’m more interested in what I can see with my own eyes.”
The group lapsed into silence as their refreshments were brought to their table. The florist, Rook, an older looking man with uncanny green eyes, a graying beard, and more facial scars than one would expect from a man who grew flowers for a living, tried to steer the conversation toward the stated reason for the gathering. “So about the centerpieces, I was thinking—”
But his words fell o
n dead ears.
Literally.
“I heard he was on the front lines. Earned his brass stripes and came here to retire,” Margaret said, her non-corporeal form flickering with excitement. “He’ll probably be looking to settle down.”
“Aren’t you a bit living-impaired for such things?” Noriann asked as they oh-so-innocently played with their long curls.
“What does being dead have to do with anything?” Margaret asked. “Plenty of people find love after life.”
“I heard he has over a thousand pounds a year to his name,” Kitty Collins piped up, pointedly ignoring the withering look from her eldest sister, Lydia, who tried unsuccessfully to kick her under the table.
“On a captain’s salary?” Rook scoffed. “Unlikely. I was in the military. Two hundred at most. And don’t talk money over cream scones. It’s undignified.”
“Oh no, Kitty is quite correct,” Mrs. Collins, who had no such qualms if the scones heard her, said happily. “His father is a peer of the realm, a magistrate in fact. Indeed, he is the Lord Northland, uh…” She dithered. “Whoever that is. An ancient family, from the sounds of it, with lots of land. All very proper and dignified. I heard it myself yesterday. From the Viscount himself,” she finished, just a touch smugly. It was a well-known fact that Amelia Collins had a long-standing relationship with the Viscount. Namely, if she stood around long enough and talked fast enough, he’d eventually give in and relate important island gossip to her.
“So, he’s an officer and a gentleman,” Margaret said thoughtfully.
“And a werewolf,” Kitty added helpfully. “I’ve never met a werewolf before. It’s all terribly thrilling!”
“Speaking of thrilling,” the Young Widow Sarah picked up the reins of the conversation, “do you think he’ll be at the May Ball?”
“Oh, quite probably. Everyone will be there. I’ve already received my invitation.” Mx. Addams pulled out their invitation and showed the group.
Crowding around the junior witch, the group marveled at the ornate letter.
“I’m going to need a new gown,” Noriann mused.
“Don’t ask me! I’m booked solid, what with creating Lady Margarete and Lady Riya’s gowns,” Margaret said a touch smugly.
That got a reaction from the table. Mrs. Collins pounced on the news like a cat on a particularly fat mouse. “Well, now you’ll have to give us a hint about what they’re wearing.”
“I most certainly do not!” Margaret paused. “But I will say that they are quite spectacular. Perfect for the May Ball. Especially Lady Riya’s dress. It’s probably the best gown I’ve had the privilege to sew.”
“Oh that reminds me.” Noriann set down their cup and spoke in a hushed tone, “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” Mx. Addams asked.
“About the Lady Riya.”
“What about her?”
Noriann leaned forward, lowering their voice. “Well I heard that Lady Elizabeth is telling everyone that—”
“Spreading rumors never comes to any good,” Rook said in a resolute tone, setting his teacup down like a judge making a proclamation. “And besides,” he sniffed, “If there was anything worth hearing, I’d have heard it, considering how much time I spend with the Viscount in his conservatory.”
Noriann glared sulkily at him but retreated to the safety of the previous topic. “Well I heard from the fishermen that Mrs. Collins is right. Captain Northland is the second son of the Wolf Lord. And he is eligible.”
“If he’s the son of some werewolf lord, then he’ll marry where his family decides,” Rook said dismissively. “Now, can we please get back to the flowers—”
Lydia Collins interrupted with, “Oh, but surely that only applies to the heir!” Her blonde, immaculately coiffed, ringlets bounced like a jelly in an earthquake. “Certainly Captain Northland will be free to choose his bride. Why, he might even choose to marry someone human!”
“Stranger things have happened, my dear,” Mrs. Collins said, agreeing with her eldest daughter, a glint of ambition hardening in her soft brown eyes. Mother to four daughters, all of them yet unmarried, everyone knew there was little Amelia Collins wouldn’t do to see them settled. “Why, just look at the Countess, her family came from miners—”
“You mean they own all the mines on Eyrie,” Lydia interjected.
Beside her, her sister Kitty snickered unbecomingly into her teacup. “And rich. Super rich.”
“Ahem! Her family came from mining,” Mrs. Collins stated louder, maintaining the cheerful manic edge to her tone. “And look where it got her.”
“Dead?” Kitty asked blithely as she bit into a cucumber sandwich with a satisfying crunch.
Several members of the unofficial gossip club choked and set down their teacups in a genteel clatter of shock.
“Noble,” the Young Widow Sarah corrected, dabbing gently at her mouth with a lace handkerchief. “Noble and immortal. There are far worse fates for an ambitious girl with a good head on her shoulders.”
“Oh well, that’s my chances shot,” Kitty proclaimed cheerfully as she helped herself to a custard tart. “Papa is always saying I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached.”
“Yes, well, quite so,” the Young Widow Sarah muttered as she looked at the girl askance. Her attention drifted back to the guardhouse where Corporal Irian had finished with their chisel and was trying to strike a match against the wind to no effect.
Some things were worth not commenting on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Early the following morning, Vlad groaned softly, rubbing his temples as he clutched his almost-empty cup of coffee tighter. Vampires were nocturnal creatures by nature. Born of an unholy union between dark magic and human folly, theirs was a species better suited to the gloomy hours between dusk and dawn, roaming through the midnight world on wings of primordial terror. They most definitely should not be awake and reading the morning paper at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.
Vlad was a firm believer that you could tell a lot about the current mood of the vox populi if you paid attention to what they read. You could learn even more if you read between the lines. In particular, how many scythes and pitchforks to expect to storm your castle, and whether it might be a prudent time to take a trip down to the crypt and nail the old coffin lid shut from the inside.
Even if it meant occasionally being awake at this unnatural hour in order to act upon what he’d read.
“Oh, you’re here,” Lady Margarete said as she wheeled into the room, stopping short when she saw Vlad sitting at the breakfast table.
Turned in her late forties, Lady Margarete was an ample-figured woman who comported herself with a matronly air of dignity that had been substantially lacking in the Count’s previous wives. Even the wheelchair she used on occasion was an elegant creation, allowing her to glide through the stone hallways with alacrity and grace. Vlad rather liked her—even if she was three hundred years his junior and insisted on calling him ‘dear.’
“Should I not be?” Vlad discarded the paper he was reading and reached for the Ingleton Gazette.
“No, of course not, dear,” Lady Margarete said, rising from her chair and sitting down at the far end of the table. “I just wasn’t expecting to see you awake so early. You’re normally still asleep at this hour.”
Reaching absently for the pot of coffee, Vlad poured himself another cup. “It’s all right, Lady M. You can say ‘drunk.’”
The Countess began to protest when his sister, Riya, glided in—the faint traces of last night’s makeup still shimmering against the ebony black of her skin. “Oh. You’re here.”
Vlad’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, thank you. I do live here too, you know.”
“You’d hardly know it,” Riya informed him primly. Walking around behind him, she dropped a sisterly kiss to the side of his cool cheek. She left a trail of gold dust in her wake.
Sighing, Vlad wiped at it ineffectively and muttered, “I’m starting to recall why.” His
attention was drawn to the article in front of him. “Oh dear, there’s been more riots in Hartford.”
“Grain prices?” Lady Margarete asked.
“Mhm.”
His father’s wife shook her head, causing the drop curls of her wig to bounce agitatedly. “Dreadful business. Who knew bread cost so much to make?”
“Bakers, presumably,” Vlad replied absently, folding up the Gazette and reaching for the next paper in the pile. He lasted all of six seconds before he threw it aside for something else. If populist media was the canary in the coal mine of the social zeitgeist, then the Daily Record was the lining at the bottom of the cage. He picked up the Times instead, turning it over to the front page where the headline read ‘THE FALL OF GALLANTRY’ in bold lettering, mercifully lacking an exclamation point. “Good thing we’re technically neutral in this.” Vlad flipped to the next page where the story continued. “I heard the banks are calling in the debts of the party backers. They’re saying it’s not related, but it always is.”
“Anarchist nonsense,” Lady Margarete said. “As if the Layman party will solve anything. The Gallants have been holding back the war in the West for over fifty years.”
“Be fair, Lady M, it’s the Layman soldiers holding that line. The Gallants are merely the ones saying ‘charge.’”
“Oh, please do talk about something else,” Riya whined. “It’s all anyone was talking about last night.”
Turning the full measure of his attention toward his sister, Vlad affected the stern air of brotherly concern he’d spent the last two-and-a-half decades perfecting. “Ah, yes, the party at Beauly Hall. All right, out with it. How many young fools fell hopelessly in love with you? And how many do I have to duel for your honor?”
Riya laughed, the gold tips of her fangs flashing. “None, you’ll be relieved to hear.”
“Then they’re more foolish than I gave them credit for.”
Riya gave him a droll look. “I did get one invitation, though.”
