by Ali Winters
“Do not be rude, Clara,” he admonishes, and I almost feel bad, except it’s a bat—inside—his house. “This is Cherno.”
The creature looks… hurt. But that is insane. It’s just an animal—and a disgusting one at that.
He resumes the tour, walking a little faster this time, and with the little creature still clinging to his shoulder. He stops once we reach the end of a hall, and without ceremony, he swings the door open and gestures for me to go in.
“This is your room.” I look past him into the room. A lazy fire burns in the hearth.
I walk in, and my pulse picks up when he follows. He walks over to the desk up against the wall and sets the candelabra down.
“You will find everything you need in here. Be aware that the servants will not be around after dark.” He pauses then crosses the room in a few strides. “Should you require anything else, you will have to wait until morning.”
“Why?” I ask breathlessly.
“There are far worse things than I that lurk in the night.”
His warning feels like a threat and sends a tremor down my spine. “There’s nothing scary about the dark.”
He hovers over me, and I think he’s trying to intimidate or scare me, but I won’t cower.
“The demons that haunt this part of the world are not the weak, lesser demons you know but are the higher demons that will rip you apart.”
“Those demons are nothing more than old wives’ tales—a way to scare children into behaving. Nothing more than superstitious nonsense.”
He circles me, stopping at my back to whisper the words in my ear. “Oh, they are real, more so than your stories make them out to be.”
“But with you, I am safe from them?” I ask, remembering how none even came near the carriage on our journey here.
Standing so close behind me, I can feel the warmth of his body. He reaches up and lifts a lock of my hair off my shoulder and lets it cascade through his fingers. “You are not safe with me, my dear Clara. Until you are marked, you will never be safe.” He lets his hand fall back to his side, then adds, “and I have no plans to ever mark you.”
Don’t react, don’t react.
Whatever sliver of kindness he had felt earlier is now gone. I spin to glare at him. I know he wants my fear. I agreed to pay Father’s debt to save Kitty from ending up in this monster’s clutches, I know it means I will most likely die at his hands, but he will not have my fear. I will not let him turn me into some frightened babe.
His words only serve to remind me that I must not forget what I need to do. I must end him.
I cannot forget that he and his kind are the worst evil in this world.
Beautiful but deadly.
And the death of each vampire means more freedom for this world.
Whatever he’s looking for in my expression, he doesn’t find it. I can see that much in the way his face falls into an emotionless mask.
Apparently, he has nothing more to say tonight, no further threats, because he leaves me standing in this strange room—my room—and closes the door behind him with a soft click.
Outside the window, purple bruises smear across the sky as dawn slowly rises on the horizon.
I let out a breath, feeling my shoulders slump as the tension leaves my muscles.
Chapter Eleven
Clara
Three solid knocks on the door have me sitting up, gasping. I scan the unfamiliar surroundings for a threat, and it takes a moment to remember where I am.
At some point, I'd fallen asleep. Even though I'd been forced to sleep for forty-eight hours. Though it might not have been a true sleep but some sort of trance. I could ask him, but I’m not sure he would give me a straight answer.
I can no longer see the sun from my window, but I know it’s setting by the reds and orange that streak across clouds, making it look as if the sky is on fire.
The loud knock comes again. I throw the blankets off me and slide out of bed, then hurry across the room.
I open the door only a crack, unsure who will be on the other side.
The young servant who lingered last night. She stands still patiently until she sees my face.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she announces curtly and then leaves.
At the mention of food, my stomach grumbles. He can serve me the worst meal he can think of again, and I know it will still be better than what I’m used to.
I look down at my clothes. The same clothes I’ve worn for three days and slept the day away in. I have half a mind to go to dinner just as I am. What do I care if he finds me repugnant?
But I can’t bring myself to do it. I want to be clean for my own sake. Crossing to the armoire, I hope there will be something my size or close enough until I can get my own clothes cleaned and find a way to procure more.
I open it and frown. Dresses. It’s all gowns. I reach out to stroke the material of a deep blue dress and stop at the sight of dirt beneath my nails.
A bath first. Even though I can’t stand the demon keeping me prisoner in his house, I can’t bring myself to ruin such fine clothing.
It takes only a moment to locate the bathing room behind a second closed door. A large plush rug is situated in the center of the room, and beneath it, marble floors gleam. There’s a toilet and a washing basin.
Against the far wall sits a porcelain tub that looks as if it’s never been used—and oh demons and saints!—it even has a faucet. I walk over and turn it on. Working plumbing. And the water that comes out of it is warm.
I quickly plug the tub and only fill a few inches. I feel a sting of guilt at even thinking about filling it, though I would love to know how relaxing that could be.
Carefully I strip, folding my clothes, which are looking all the more filthy in contrast to everything in this place.
Against the far side are shelves built into the wall, holding so many bottles—bottles of perfumes and soaps and lotions and towels and more.
I grab a bar of soap and a washcloth and step into the tub. I sit and nearly slide onto my back, unused to the smooth surface. It’s a far cry from the wooden tub I’ve used most of my life.
Eventually, I find a position where I can wash. The soap leaves my skin feeling soft and smelling of roses.
Once clean, I get out and dry off then wander back into the main portion of the room I’m staying in. I grab the deep cobalt blue dress I had been eyeing earlier and pull it out. I frown, already hating the idea that I’m supposed to wear a corset with it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin with the strappy thing.
A quick glance through the rest reveals the same. I’ve never worn one. And it’s just one more detail to make me feel even more inadequate for this place. I wouldn’t even know how to lace it up on my own, even if I wanted to.
I’m uncomfortable with how nice everything is. From the carriage, the accommodations here, to the clothes Mr. Devereaux has provided—it’s all fit for the elite—and I am a far cry from belonging to a world such as this.
I slip the dress on, forgoing the corset. It fits perfectly, if not a little tighter than I am used to at the waist. Surely, by now, an hour has passed, or close to it.
I open the bedroom door and stick my head out, looking up and down the hall. There’s no one there. I think I can find my way, but the tour last night was hurried and not well lit. Everything looks different now in the waning light of day.
I make a few false turns before I pass the library. The doors are still closed, but there’s a thin flickering light shining along the bottom from within that wasn’t there last night.
I keep walking, only slowing once I reach the staircase that leads to the third floor. The darkness is unusually thick, even now. I feel a pull tugging on me. It’s tempting to make my way up there to see what he’s hiding.
Now is not the time.
Shaking away the thoughts, I continue on. I need to kill this vampire and be done with it, not skulk around his house looking in rooms with closed doors. This world i
s overrun, and if I can eliminate one or two, then we will all be better off with fewer of these bloodthirsty monsters hunting us and controlling every aspect of our lives.
After several more wrong turns, I run into the butler. He waits for me in a hall as if he expected me to get lost. He motions for me to follow.
He would be around my father’s age if I had to guess, perhaps a little older and in his early forties. His eyes and hair are both nondescript shades of brown, though he has gray streaks at his temples.
When we reach the dining room, he bows slightly at the waist and gestures for me to enter.
“Thank you, Mr. …” I trail off, not knowing how to address him.
“Steward. James Steward,” he says.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Steward.”
He clears his throat, his eyes flicking quickly to the room as if to tell me to stop my stalling.
I pull my shoulders back and breathe, then I enter the massive room.
A long table is situated in the center, with a hearth on the inside wall, with windows along the opposite. A heavy chandelier hangs over the center of the table, tallow candles burning, their light magnified by the countless crystals.
Mr. Devereaux sits at the head of the table, sipping on a glass of port as he reads a book. The place setting before him is empty.
I swallow down my nerves and enter the room. He glances up briefly before returning his attention to his book. I walk to the only other seat at the table that has been set, and stand behind the chair. I might as well be nothing more than a mote of dust fluttering through a shaft of light for all he sees or cares that I’m here.
With a table as large as this, why was I seated directly to his right? I would have preferred several seats between us.
Eventually, he looks up again and motions to the chair. “Are you going to stand there all day, or would you care to sit and eat?”
That mocking tone of his gets under my skin. Everything I do or do not do is one more thing for him to criticize, something for him to laugh at, something for him to use against me somehow. He has a way of setting my temper ablaze with a few words. It makes me hate him all the more.
I think about refusing to join him out of spite, but eventually, hunger wins out. I sit, folding my hands in my lap.
I’m not sure what to do in a situation like this. I’ve never been made to dine with a stranger, let alone a vampire. He continues to ignore me for some time.
A woman who I assume to be the head housekeeper walks out from the kitchen. She is older, with her black and silver hair pinned up in a fashionable style. And though she has warm brown eyes, she looks at me with reserved judgment.
She carries a covered plate in each hand, setting one in front of her master, and the other before me, removing the covers in turn.
“Thank you, Mrs. Westfield,” he says.
I study him. I hadn’t realized vampires ate real food. She pours wine in my glass, and, in an attempt to help quell my nerves, I take a sip of my own drink.
He takes another drink, and it’s only now that I can tell that my wine is different from his.
Where mine runs back down the side of the crystal, his lingers. His is thicker, much thicker. Oh demons and saints, my mind swirls as I realize the truth.
It is not wine in his cup, but blood. Human blood.
I feel sick. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose before opening them again.
“Are you unwell, Miss?” Mrs. Westfield asks.
I blink at her and nod, attempting to quell her worry with a smile, though I’m sure she can tell it’s fake.
Mr. Devereaux finally closes his book and sets it down on the table to his left. “That will be all, Lydia.”
“Yes, Master.” She bows and leaves the two of us to dine alone.
The food looks and smells fantastic, even despite my recent nausea over the blood. Roasted turkey, potatoes, sautéed vegetables, buttered rolls, and more. I pick up my fork and knife and manage to take a few bites.
“You are a terrible liar. You do realize that don’t you?” he says when I’ve taken my first bite.
I say nothing in response.
He takes a sip of his drink—blood.
I wrinkle my nose in disgust. What human had to die to provide that for him? Was it a man? Woman? Child? I shudder and find that I am no longer hungry.
My fingers tighten around my fork and knife as I stare at him. He lifts his own silverware and proceeds to eat the meal before him. Every few bites, he takes another sip.
“It’s rude to stare,” he says without looking up.
I can’t take this anymore, dining with him and pretending that we are longtime friends, or something far more intimate. He’s mocking me. Everything about him mocks me.
Kitty’s words come back to me again. “Kill him and return to me.” I had promised her, knowing it would likely mean my own end, but I have no intention of going back on that vow. I’ll die knowing the world is a little safer for her.
I stand, shoving my chair back; it scrapes loudly against the wood floor.
“You are vile,” I say through clenched teeth.
He sneers, he actually sneers at me. His full lips draw my eye. Demons have sculpted this man into some ethereal being. How unfair it is that he’s not as hideous to look at to match his terrible nature.
I feel a stab of guilt at finding him attractive. I should find him repulsive to look at.
“Have you always lacked basic table manners? You eat like a wild animal.” One corner of his mouth twitches. He is enjoying this—a cat playing with its food right before it delivers the fatal blow and devours it. He slowly stands and mirrors my stance, leaning forward on the table.
My gaze snaps back up to his. I know he’s baiting me. I know I shouldn’t rise to the occasion, but so rarely does he say anything that is not intended to crawl under my skin and force me to react.
“Kill him… Kill him, then return home to me.”
I look down at my hands, gripping my knife and fork so hard my knuckles go white. The candlelight glints off the metal. This elaborate dinner, the accommodations, it’s a slap in the face. As if I should be grateful that a vampire is bestowing such luxuries upon me when I’m a lowly human who deserves to fight tooth and nail to just survive another day.
I swing my hand with the knife, slashing at him and aiming for his heart.
His hand moves lightning quick, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, stopping me. The knife never makes it close to his chest. I fight him and use every ounce of strength I possess. My arm shakes, and he’s not even struggling. His fingers squeeze, applying more and more pressure until I cry out and drop the knife. The pressure eases instantly, but he remains holding me.
Mr. Devereaux leans forward so I can feel his breath on my cheek.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he says through clenched teeth, his fangs bared with the slightest hint of blood still on them. His red-ringed eyes lower, lingering on my throat. The tip of his tongue darts out between his teeth, and I’m drawn to the motion. “Dinner is over.”
He turns and starts walking out of the room, dragging me behind him. I pull on my arm, but it’s no use, and I have to practically run to keep up as he leads me through the manor.
Throwing open the door to my room, he practically throws me inside, only then letting go. I stagger a few steps to catch my balance.
“Do not bother leaving your room until you can act civilized,” he snarls.
Then the door slams shut.
Chapter Twelve
Alaric
My back presses against the closed doors to my rooms. Black, heavy drapes hang over the windows, blocking the outside world from view. More hang from the four posts of my bed tied back neatly with silken rope.
I fight the urge to find my way back to that infernal woman. I have lost my appetite… no, it’s the opposite, it is sparked, and the fact that she is the root of it disturbs me.
At dinner, my gaze had caught on the sensitive
patch of skin where her neck and shoulder meet.
I'd planned on making her uncomfortable during dinner—to make her squirm in her chair as she ate each and every bite of her food—I wanted every sip of blood I took from my glass to be a threat so she would know that her blood is next.
It had worked, but she did not fear me. Every word I spoke seemed to set off her temper. And then she had tried to stab me. Her willingness to murder an innocent, and her attempt on my life, as pathetic an attempt as it was, only serves to remind me why I have never taken a human during the claiming before.
To look her in the eye, her expression—she had appeared fearless, but the pulse beneath my fingers, wrapped around her wrist, betrayed her true feelings. The contrast of the two is enticing even now.
I have unknowingly let her into my mind, allowed her space there, giving her the power to make me forget myself and let my hold over my control slip when she insulted me.
She makes an attempt on my life and calls me vile. It was not the word itself, but the venom with which she spewed it that did it. She was the murderess. She had struck down Rosalie. Rosalie, who would never have harmed a human, no matter how awful.
I wanted to kill Clara, to drain her of every last drop of blood in that dining room… but I couldn’t. So many years of living the way Rosalie wanted—it seems as though I am now incapable of the same cruelty as this mortal.
“You seem awfully out of sorts today, Alaric.” Cherno flies into my chambers, passing through the wood paneling as though it were only fog, a sealed letter hanging from their clawed feet.
I turn to face the fire blazing in the hearth, choosing to ignore the prying tone.
“What is that you have?”
“Nothing,” Cherno says, flying farther across the room. “Tell me, Master, about the girl.”
“There is nothing to tell, so hand over the letter.” I cross the room, intending to snatch it from the little imp.
