by Ali Winters
He's not cowed by my anger, but neither is he upset. “I need you to trust me to tell you what you need to know, when you need to know,” Alaric says evenly. “This is a lot to take in. I wanted to ease you into it—to give you the chance to process it all.”
It irritates me that his reasoning does make sense. I can’t help the part of me that wants to fight. It isn’t about him, or whatever information he held back, but rather everything I am struggling to hold on to and come to grips with.
“Out with it then,” I demand.
“They will be staying here through the end of the season.”
Black spots form across my vision. “That’s… that’s…”
Two months…
He continues as if what he said wasn’t anything to worry about. “Then, they will escort us both to Nightwich.”
“Go to Nightwich?” I sputter. “What about—”
Alaric holds up his hand. “Our stay there will only be a week. Two at most.”
I press my hand to my head. My vision wavers and I stumble slightly as my legs threaten to go out from under me. I might as well walk downstairs with open veins and offer myself up for dinner.
Alaric steps forward and grips my elbows, keeping me upright. I cling to his forearms, unable to stand without his support. This ruse of ours might as be for an eternity.
I’ve never been skilled in the art of lying. My expressions always end up giving me away. I don’t know if I can pretend for so long. Days, maybe. But months?
Now his insistence on marking me makes sense. Finding my legs again, I take a step back.
“This is impossible,” I say. The freedom he promised me slips from my fingers, like smoke from a doused fire.
“Perhaps it is, but without the mark, it is our only option.” He straightens his back and looks almost regal. “There will be several tasks, the first of which will be presenting you to my guests tonight.”
“Present me?”
“It is a simple matter and one of the things we must do to avoid their suspicions. Otherwise, they will wonder why I am hiding you.” His lips draw into a tight line.
I take in a breath then release it slowly.
“Tell me what being marked entails,” I say, then hold up a hand. “Not because I want it, but knowing will help me do what I need to do.”
Alaric’s eyes darken a shade. Then in a blink, he is a hair’s breadth away. His hands come up to cup my face, bringing his face closer. My eyes slide shut, ready for the kiss I’m sure will come.
“First,” he whispers, his breath brushing my lips. “There can be no attempts on my life.” One hand tangles in my hair, the other moves around my waist to pull me flush against him. “And second, you would not pull away.”
Alaric kisses along my jaw and down my neck. I try not to move or react, but my damned body has a mind of its own, pressing even closer to his.
“Yes, like that,” he says. “And it ends with you needing to obey my every word.” And then he releases me. The cold air contrasts with his embrace. My eyes snap open and Alaric stands halfway across the room.
I nearly gasp at the sudden loss of his warmth and the last thing he said. Shit… He manipulated me so easily.
I narrow my eyes.
“I am not your puppet,” I snap.
“This is not for me, my dear Clara, but so the others believe. You are—” he shakes his head. “I would never want you to be a mindless puppet. This is nothing more than a part we must play.”
“I hate this… it makes me feel like… like…”
“A possession?” he offers, with a hint of bitterness to his voice.
I nod.
“Then, you must remember, my dear Clara, that you are not.”
I clench my fists in the folds of my skirt. “You could always let me go.”
“I’m sorry, that is no longer an option. You have been claimed. The others know you live and who you are.”
It isn’t the answer I wanted, but in truth, I did not expect anything else. Still, knowing that does nothing to ease the ache in my heart.
Alaric backs away to leave. “Mrs. Westfield will be in shortly to help you prepare for the night.”
I nod. There is nothing else I can do.
He pauses long enough to say, “Remember to obey.”
Chapter Four
Clara
I don’t miss the fact that my dress is the exact shade of blue as Alaric’s eyes. I tilt my head, contemplating how much time and effort it must have taken to make sure the material ended up this particular shade.
Reaching up to run a hand through my hair, I barely manage to stop myself in time from ruining the long and painful hour Mrs. Westfield had spent arranging it into intricate knots and curls. Whether I was in more pain, or she was, is still up for debate.
My neck and shoulders are bare, and the neckline is low in the current fashion for extravagant parties. Long gloves rise halfway past my elbows to hide the thin wrapping on my healing arms.
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. Alaric had said he was going to present me to the four vampires. I’m not ready for that many eyes on me, let alone the possibility of more than being watched.
I pluck at the material of the skirt. It’s lighter than any other material I’ve worn before, and the built-in corset is so tight I can hardly move.
There are no pockets, and the material is too thin to strap the dagger to my thigh, let alone hide it anywhere else on my person.
It seems I have no choice but to leave it behind. Alaric will be with me, and I have to hope that his presence will be enough.
Obey. Obey. Obey… the thought of doing everything someone else demands twists my stomach into knots. I’ve never obeyed anyone before and I've survived well enough. Of course, survival has always meant, doing what is necessary, and it seems this is necessary.
Dealing with vampires is not the same as what I'm used to. This is akin to walking into the forest in the dead of night and challenging a demon to possess me just to see how it would rip me apart.
I wring my hands. The longer I have to stand here and wait until I'm summoned, the more I begin to doubt my ability to pull this off.
A knock sounds and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Come in,” I call.
Mr. Steward enters and looks me up and down, appraisingly. He tsks and stalks over to the foot of my bed where the thick choker necklace still sits.
“Turn around,” he says.
I do. He clasps it around my neck, and I have to resist the urge to rip it off. It feels like I'm being strangled.
“They will see you do not have the marks without it,” Mr. Steward admonishes. “You haven’t touched your food either.”
I shrug. Who in my position could eat? “I’m ready,” I say.
Without another word, he motions for me to follow. I take a deep breath and blow it out, focusing on calming my heartbeat, then I stride after him.
Mr. Steward stops when we reach the library and turns to me. “You will do just fine, Miss, Valmont.”
I stare slack-jawed. For someone who isn’t fond of me or my presence here, he is strangely encouraging. I would say almost fatherly with his concern and making sure I’m ready, but I don’t know what to expect from a real father.
My father has only ever demanded I do whatever was necessary to bring home money for his gambling and to put food on the table.
Of course, it hadn’t started out that way. At first, I had done so willingly at his request as he struggled to save the floundering trade business. But after Mother was claimed and reported back to us as dead, his addiction to spirits overwhelmed him. Within a few years, the responsibility of keeping the roof over our heads had fallen on my shoulders. My thoughts turn from him to Kitty…
I miss her. I hope she is doing well. With these guests here, I don't know how or when I can return to her.
I don’t trust Father to get her the medication she needs. I hope she used the money I stashed and secured he
rself a decent marriage with one of the younger men in town. But she mentioned nothing about the money or her medicine in the one letter I've received.
She expects me home soon, and I can only guess that's why it remains the only letter I’ve received since coming here.
We turn down a hall, away from the drawing room near the front of the manor, and the dim lighting pulls me from my thoughts of home.
“Are we not going to the drawing room?”
Mr. Steward lists his head to the side. “No, the music room is more suitable for this occasion.”
The doors are closed and he motions for me to stay. The butler straightens his shoulders and puffs up his chest, then opens one door, taking a single step inside.
Voices float out into the hallway, but not loud enough to make out what they are saying. Then Alaric’s warm timbre silences the room with a single word.
Mr. Steward clears his throat and bows. Then he straightens and says, “Introducing, the Lady Clara.”
I swear my heart freezes in my chest. Lady? I'm no lady. Why didn’t Alaric warn me I had to act like a lady on top of everything else?
The butler backs out of the room and motions for me to enter. I take a shaky step forward, and steeling my spine, I focus on slowing my pounding pulse.
My feet move forward. Slow and steady. My mind races wildly, too fast to take everything in. Somehow I manage to keep my features placid and emotionless.
The closest vampire is the one from last night. Mr. Harkstead. His blond hair is tied back by a leather cord at the nape of his neck. It’s odd how human he looks.
He nods in my direction. I almost falter at the lack of intimidation in his demeanor. From the short conversation we had in the library, I had expected him to try.
Behind him on one of the sofas is a woman with black hair cut into a chin-length bob—red jewels around the neckline accent her black gown.
She doesn’t bother looking up. A man, barefoot and shirtless, kneels on the floor before her, arm raised, her mouth pressed to his wrist. She strokes his cheek as she opens her mouth and bites down.
My stomach churns.
The other two male vampires stare at me as though they can see straight through me.
The man with silver blond hair holds a woman to him. She is nearly limp in his arms, her head lulled to the side, neck exposed.
The last vampire is a man with short hair that is a mix of gold and umber. Two women sit at his feet, grasping at his legs. One looks weak and sickly pale, blood streaks down her neck, soaking her dress from the collar down her chest. The other has several puncture marks along her arms. Neither seem to notice anything else—they only want his attention, his touch. Their desperation is nearly palpable.
But he is looking at me like he has yet to drink his fill. The red rings around his irises are so thick they almost seem to glow even from across the room.
Demons and saints, what in the Otherworld have I walked into?
I wonder if any of the humans in this room will make it out alive, or if they will all be dead long before the sun rises.
The door closes behind me with a soft click, leaving me locked inside a veritable viper’s nest.
“Clara,” Alaric’s voice drawls to my right.
My gaze drifts to him. One second he is standing beside the piano, in the next, he is closing the distance with long strides. His arm wraps around my waist and his mouth crashes down on mine. My first instinct is to pull away, but I can’t.
I let myself melt into him, returning the embrace as if I mean it.
He ends the kiss then he offers me a glass filled with a red liquid. I take it without hesitation.
Obey… obey…
A quick sniff of the contents tells me it’s wine. I take a sip, watching Alaric through my eyelashes. Then I take a longer drink, and another, until my glass is empty.
The murmuring conversations resume. I can feel them watching us, looking for any sign of weakness.
Alaric snaps his fingers and a woman with bite marks along her wrists hurries over, carrying a silver platter with several more filled glasses. He takes my empty cup and sets it down on the tray, retrieving a full one and handing it to me.
His fingers linger on mine a second longer than necessary, then he bends his head down, nuzzling my ear and whispers, “You will want to pace yourself, my dear Clara. There are still the introductions to be made.”
He leads me to a settee. Despite his warning, I empty my second glass before we are halfway across the room.
We turn to sit, but there is already a vampire standing before us.
“Mr. Harkstead,” I blurt.
I have absolutely no idea if I should have spoken or if I'm expected to talk only when given permission. There are so many unknowns to this night.
“Please,” he says with a genuine smile. “Call me Lawrence. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Valmont.” He emphasizes the false title, with a surprising lack of mockery.
Then the three of us make small talk. I am stupefied at how normal this feels. Alaric’s fingers press into my waist in a comforting gesture.
“I look forward to seeing you around, Clara,” Lawrence says.
He takes a step back but stops when the female hooks her arm through his and leans her head on his shoulder. Out of the five vampires in this room, she is the only female among them.
“Don’t be rude, Lawrence,” she admonishes.
She drapes herself on his arm. She could be his wife, but there is a coldness to her stare, and his posture has stiffened, so I don't think things are quite so simple between them.
“You are right, how intolerably rude of me,” he says without the slightest shred of sincerity. “Lady Valmont, this is Della Moore.”
The red jewels that adorn her glint like dark drops of fresh blood against her pale skin. Della extends her hand as if she expects me to kiss her knuckles? Yeah, that is not going to happen.
“It is good to meet you, Mrs. Moore,” I say, ignoring her hand.
Lawrence’s mouth ticks up at the corners. Della looks insulted. For a second, I think I’ve messed up and they all know the truth. But Alaric doesn't give any corrective hints. No looks, no words, no gestures, or warnings.
Before I can dwell on it, Lawrence leads her away. The short-haired vampire approaches. He still wears an expression that borders on contemplating taking my blood, even with Alaric at my side.
“Good evening, lady,” he says. “I am Victor Conners.”
We exchange greetings and speak about the view of the grounds. All the while, Victor watches me with his unwavering brown eyes.
A shiver works its way down my spine. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t blink often enough, or maybe it’s an emptiness in his eyes, or how he intentionally shows me his fangs each time he smiles or speaks.
I drink another glass of wine during the time we talk.
By the time he leaves, my shoulders and back ache from the tension that's been building since I walked into the room.
The woman with the tray walks by. Alaric goes to wave her off, but I take another glass before she moves out of reach.
There is only one vampire that has yet to approach. He talks to Lawrence and Della near the fire. He hasn’t looked in my direction since the moment I walked in.
Alaric and I sit on the settee behind us and he pulls me to his side. I try to relax as best as I can—which is nearly impossible with this cursed corset squeezing me. So, I focus on the glass in my hand. My cheeks are warm, and a buzz fills my head. Even my body tingles in a strange but not unpleasant way.
“Are you not hungry tonight, Alaric?” a voice like warm velvet croons from the side.
I freeze before looking up into the emerald eyes of the one vampire I have yet to meet.
“You have not had a single drop of blood tonight, and yet your pet is right here.” Unlike the others, he does not introduce himself, nor does he speak to me, though his gaze doesn't leave my face. “She looks about ready to fly aw
ay… like a little bird,” he muses quietly, more to himself.
I dislike the way he says little bird. His expression reminds me of a cat ready to pounce. His eyes linger on my neck as if he can see the vein, pulsing, under the necklace.
I can’t think straight. I don’t know what to say or do… I can barely remember how to breathe. He is trying to force Alaric to feed on me right here.
Against my will, my heart races. The vampire cants his head to the side, listening, a pleased smile forming.
I tip my head back and finish my third glass—or is it my fourth? Or…
Alaric’s hand glides down my waist to my hip, then he pulls me tighter into his side. He dips his head and nips gently at my jaw. His fangs brush my skin, eliciting a sigh.
“I have had my fill earlier today,” he says, not taking his eyes off me.
He doesn’t insist on the two of us introducing ourselves. Instead, he keeps his undivided attention on me until we are alone again.
Alaric’s hand comes up to cup my cheek and turns me to face him. And then he kisses me, and everything falls away, everything except the feel of his mouth on mine. He breaks away to nip at my ear.
Softly, he whispers, “I think the drink has gone to your head, perhaps it is time for you to retire.”
I nod, understanding his meaning. He helps me to stand. He remains in place as I walk out of the room, my legs surprisingly steady even though my head swims from all the wine.
That wasn’t so bad after all.
Chapter Five
Clara
The tree branches are nearly bare. In the dark of night, they look like demons rising to take shape, reaching up through the forests. Silver moonlight glints off the still lake, making it look like glass.
A dull ache throbs behind my eyes. I rub my head, not sure how long I have been standing here, looking out over the grounds.
I don’t know what I was doing before. The wine must have affected me more than I expected. I’ve never had so much before at one time.
The open window lets in a soft breeze that flutters the curtain and chills the floor beneath my bare feet.
