The Vampire Curse

by Ali Winters

  Walking past several shelves, I grab a random book without so much as glancing at the spine. I take it to the window seat and drop down with a bone-weary sigh. Cherno snuggles into my neck, tangling a wing into my hair. I would never admit it, but the little demon’s presence is somewhat comforting. Even if only because their power is an echo of the power I crave.

  I open the book and peer down at the pages, my eyes roll over the words, but I see none of them. All I see is Alaric’s office, all I feel are his arms around me and—demons and saints—his mouth pressed to my neck.

  I had expected the bite to hurt, or at least sting, but it was warm. I’d wanted him to kiss me, to touch me, to do far more than that. Once more, I push those thoughts down.

  I force myself to focus on each and every word in excruciating detail.

  It’s a large tome about a man’s journey through the Otherworld where he unleashes demons from their prison, allowing them to make their way into our world. The story is entirely fantastical, the language is archaic and rhythmic, like an incredibly long children’s bedtime story. One meant to get them to behave and stay inside at night, where they will be protected and safe.

  Hours later, Mrs. Westfield enters with a small tray of bread, cheese, and cider. She says nothing, her expression remains as impassive as ever. Her eyes flick to where Cherno is still perched on my shoulder. She gives me a curt nod, then leaves.

  “Thank you,” I call out, though she doesn’t bother acknowledging me.

  I adjust my position, crossing my legs, setting the book in my lap as I nibble on the food—my mouth waters at the first bite. Demons and Saints, I am starving!

  I rip off a small chunk of bread and offer it to Cherno.

  “I don’t eat human food,” they say.

  I pop the piece in my mouth. And as I chew, I wonder if I dare ask, what a demon does eat… or if I already know the answer.

  Instead, I resume eating, not looking up from my book until I reach for another bite and find nothing.

  Eventually, the sky lightens, and I finally close the book. I’m still hurt by Alaric’s dismissal, but at least my desire to find him and wrap myself around him, has lessened.

  My mind is clear again, and I can think past the unsettling emotions. I didn’t ask Alaric to mark me because of any intimate reason. It wasn’t out of jealousy, or lust, or affection. It was purely pragmatic. If I plan to stay here and go to Nightwich, then I'll need his mark to be safe.

  My fingers trail over the spot where he bit me. Two small scars remain. I am one step closer to being safe… and tying myself to Alaric for life. He and Cassius have both made sure I know another vampire could mark me, overriding Alaric’s claim, until I have that final mark.

  I’m still not sure I want to be marked—well, I’m not sure about the final mark, anyway. The second… the second will keep me safe.

  Not that my wants matter. Vampires rule the world, and try as I might to fight them, I will end up complying.

  I don’t trust Lawrence. He looks at me with suspicious eyes and like my presence is an affront to him. Cassius and Victor seem decent enough, if not a little strange, but I wouldn’t want to be tied to either of them.

  If I am to be claimed and marked, then I want it to be Alaric’s. At least with him, I will have some semblance of autonomy. He may have pissed me off by being cold, but I still trust him.

  I jump when Cherno’s head pops up. They launch off my shoulder and out of the library. It seems I no longer need to be watched.

  Standing, I stretch my arms and legs, working out the stiffness in my muscles from sitting and reading the night away. I head to the kitchen, hoping to find a hot cup of tea. The manor is silent as I make my way to the first floor, and even though the sun is not yet up, there are no signs of vampires.

  I only make it as far as the dining room doorway. Mrs. Westfield sets a plate of food before Alaric. And while she looks up to give me a tight smile, he doesn’t so much as lift his eyes. I can’t tell if he is too consumed by the letter he’s reading or if he is intentionally avoiding me.

  “Have a seat, dear,” Mrs. Westfield says, pulling out a chair across from her master.

  It isn’t until I have a plate in front of me and Mrs. Westfield has left the room, that Alaric finally looks up. He says nothing. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I wish he would say something. The space between us feels strained and uncomfortable. Even when we were always at odds with each other, it was never like this.

  When he doesn’t speak, I busy my hands with a piece of toast, spreading butter and jam over it. I break our eye contact first, keeping my head down.

  Parchment crinkles and I look up. Deep midnight eyes are locked on me. The letter he was reading is folded neatly next to his empty plate.

  The tension is nearly tangible. By some miracle, I manage to avoid squirming in my seat.

  I want to know what he’s thinking. I want to understand why being in the same space as him now is so strained. I don’t know what to say or do. I’ve never felt so unsure about another person before. Does he regret marking me?

  “Pardon me, Master, but you have visitors,” Mr. Steward announces from the doorway.

  Alaric pushes back in his chair and stands. He gives me another look I cannot read, then follows the butler out of the room, leaving me alone. I eye the discarded letter, wondering if it has anything to do with his mood.

  In the end, I choose to leave it. If he’s going to mark me, then now isn’t the time to break his trust by invading his privacy. Dropping my unfinished toast onto my plate, I push back my chair and follow.

  Alaric stands in the open doorway. His fingers twitch as if he’s fighting off the urge to do something rash—he does nothing to hide the scowl on his face.

  “What are you doing here, Wolverik?” he snarls at the man in front of him.

  My jaw slackens in surprise to see the man who gave me directions through the forest when I had tried to run away standing at the door. I’m confused as to why he would be here… and Alaric knows him.

  Oliver’s expression and body language are much the same. A man and a woman flank him, though they stand back, giving the two men room. The woman and man are dressed similarly. They are both dressed in umber breeches, forest green jackets with buttons done up at the waist, and white shirts underneath. Dark leather boots that go to the knee complete their uniform.

  “We have come to discuss the demon problem,” Oliver says pointedly.

  He looks older now than when I’d first met him. There is no trace of the friendly demeanor I knew.

  “There has been a higher demon in our woods for weeks now. It's destroying the ecosystem and poisoning my lands with its foul magic.”

  Alaric holds up his hand, silencing further discussion. He lifts his arm guiding the three shifters. “As you may be aware, I have company. Why don’t we sit in the drawing room and chat? It is still early in the morning.”

  I step forward intending to follow them. Oliver looks up, and when he sees me, a broad, wolfish grin spreads across his face.

  He pushes past Alaric and slides over to me. I take half a step back before he grasps my hand in his. Oliver presses a kiss to my knuckles as he bows.

  “Hello, my lady. It is not every day that I get the pleasure of meeting someone as lovely as yourself,” he says, straightening.

  Meet me? What in the Otherworld is he talking about? I’m about to point out that we’ve already met, but then I look over his shoulder to Alaric. His eyes widen a fraction of a second before I realize why.

  Oliver slips an arm around me and pulls me against him. My face heats from having him so close with the weight of Alaric’s stare burning into me. I want to punch him in his pretty face for using me to tease him.

  I press my hands against Oliver’s chest, trying to put a little distance between us, but he’s not paying attention, and his hold is too strong. I don’t like how Alaric is looking at us.

  This is an expression of his I can read.
He looks ready to rip Oliver to shreds.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Clara

  “Will you be joining us today?” Oliver asks, inclining his head. As his face inches closer to mine, I lean back. His eyes flick to my neck then back to my face. His smile slips a fraction, and heat travels up to burn my cheeks.

  “No,” Alaric says sharply. His arm slides across my collarbone, separating Oliver and me.

  Oliver releases me and steps to the side. Not quite a retreat, but enough to show that he’s not going to challenge Alaric.

  “Clara,” Alaric says without so much as glancing my way. “Please excuse us.”

  The man and woman that came with Oliver raise their chins in a barely noticeable move. Their scrutiny sears up and down my body as they appraise me. I don’t know what they find, but it is clear that I have been found wanting.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Clara,” Oliver says. And then he turns, striding into the drawing room, the other shifters on his heels.

  I reach for Alaric’s hand. He looks down, then reluctantly he meets my gaze as if it pains him.

  “I want to join you.” I keep my voice calm. “There is something going on, and if…” I swallow, stumbling on my words. “If I am to stay with you, I should know what it’s about. This is now my home too.”

  His expression softens, and for a moment, I think he might actually consider it. But then he sets his jaw and shakes his head, removing his hand from mine. “No. Perhaps another time.”

  Then he closes the door, and I’m left standing alone once more. I’m fed up with him shutting me out. We were never like this, he was never like this before the first mark.

  The murmuring on the other side begins immediately. I tiptoe closer and press my ear to the wood, trying to make out the conversation. But the sound of my pulse obscures most of it.

  “Higher… Worse… Urgent…”

  “Evesdropping?” a man says.

  My heart leaps into my throat as I whirl to face Mr. Harkstead.

  “No, I wasn’t… I was…”

  His lip curls. “Are you sure? Because you had your ear pressed against the door,” he says, holding out a hand to me. “Come, there is no use lying.”

  I shake my head, then take a deep breath and blow it out. “What I meant to say was that I wasn’t trying to intrude. I am worried. That’s all.”

  “I’m sure Alaric will tell you what you want to know when he is ready. But for now, you need to trust him.”

  I trust Alaric. It’s the vampire standing before me I don’t trust. Then I chide myself for making an opinion of him just because he has never been warm toward me. I will give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, I was once wrong about Alaric, I might be wrong about Lawrence too.

  The weight of the night-forged dagger in my hidden pocket gives me a small sense of safety. A girl can never be too careful.

  I slip my hand into his and walk with him until we reach the music room. Half the drapes are drawn, only the ones covering the west-facing windows are open, allowing soft light in and blocking out the harsh direct rays of the sun.

  Once we reach the middle of the room, Lawrence drops my hand and walks over to the piano. Lifting the lid covering the keys, he takes a seat on the bench.

  “Ah, no one told me there was going to be a party.”

  I jump, turning to face Victor standing closer than I expected. He wraps an arm around my waist and lifts my left hand with his free one.

  “Care to dance?” he asks, not waiting for music.

  He takes a few steps, picking me up just enough that my feet barely touch the ground. I’m too startled to say anything.

  A jarring crash of piano keys sounds through the room, and thankfully Victor stops dancing. I don’t hesitate to put distance between us.

  “It is not a party, and if you want to spend time with Lady Clara, then you can come back later.”

  Victor’s brows shoot up. His eyes seem to pulse with an inky darkness, then I blink, and it's gone. “I didn’t realize you wished for alone time with her. I do apologize,” he says. “I will leave you alone.”

  Victor inclines his head toward me, apologizing once more and giving me a sheepish smile, then he turns and strides from the room.

  Vampires are such territorial creatures.

  Lawrence positions his hands over the keys, then looks at me and dips his head, indicating the spot next to him.

  Hesitantly, I walk over and sit as close to the edge as I can so our sides don’t touch. Then he begins to play. The tempo is slow, quiet, and sorrowful. I’ve never learned to play. Father always said it was a waste of time when I should be working to help our family.

  As the song picks up, he moves with it until it ends on a long, soft note, like an exhale.

  Lawrence turns to me. It’s like he is trying to read my mind or soul or see down to my very essence.

  He slowly lowers the lid down over the keys.

  “I was shocked when I first learned Alaric had finally taken part in the claiming. We all were. Did you know he has never claimed a human before?” He runs a hand over his chin thoughtfully, as if rubbing stubble that isn’t there. “I was with him the day before he claimed you. Even then, he was adamant he wouldn’t partake in the custom.”

  I hold my breath, frozen where I sit. His words are innocuous enough, he isn’t saying anything cruel or untrue, but his eyes hold something deadly.

  “But then he did, there was no hiding that from Elizabeth. And because he finally claimed a human, he must attend the winter masquerade. I wanted to see what kind of human managed to change his mind.”

  I lick my suddenly dry lips. “And?” I prompt when he doesn’t continue. “What did you find?”

  “A puzzle.”

  I raise a brow in question.

  “You see, you are quite unremarkable. You are not from a good or rich family, and you’re not any exceptional beauty and yet… you have him bewitched.”

  I snort, probably proving his point about me. But saying I bewitched a vampire is a gross exaggeration.

  Lawrence tilts his head. “Now don’t look so offended, you know the things I say are true.”

  He stands and walks around the bench until he’s on my other side and rests one hand on the piano, the other on the edge of the bench.

  I say nothing.

  Neither of us moves for a painfully long moment. My neck begins to ache from holding it at this angle.

  “Why did he claim you, Clara?” he asks. “Why would he claim a human now, after years of refusing to even consider it?”

  I want to lie and say I don’t know, but my instincts scream not to. “If you want to know, then ask him yourself. You must think a lot of me to assume I know his mind.”

  Suspicion settles over his shoulders like a cloak. I see it in his eyes first as they widen and then narrow. “What do you know of the vampire that was killed during the claiming?” he asks, almost too calmly.

  My stomach gutters and I’m glad I'm sitting because I don’t think my legs could hold me up. I can’t admit everything to him. It would mean certain death.

  Focus… keep your heartbeat slow, my mind commands.

  I pull in a slow breath and say, “I know there was a vampire killed around the time he claimed me.” Lawrence quirks a brow at that admission. “And I know that she was his sister.”

  There… not a lie, but not an admission of guilt.

  Lawrence bares his teeth. “I find it to be too much of a coincidence that Rosalie is murdered, and Alaric just happens to claim you. What do you know of her death?”

  He snarls, red rings his irises, threatening to consume the green and gold of his hazel eyes.

  I shouldn’t be offended by his accusation since it’s true. Nevertheless, the revenge for Rosalie’s death is not his to take.

  I slide one hand over the top of the piano, next to his. I straighten my back and hold my chin high, leaning in so close, our noses nearly touch. I bare my teeth. “Do not th
reaten me, Mr. Harkstead. It will not end well.”

  He goes to speak but stops as the movement of his jaw presses the underside of his chin down on the dagger's point. The slightest pressure from my hand is all it would take to drive it into his skin. It might not be a killing blow, but I don’t intend it to be if he forces me to follow through.

  “He gave you her dagger?” he speaks with venom, but I don’t miss the sliver of pain in his voice. “Or did you steal it?”

  “If you want to know about Rosalie’s death, then ask Mr. Devereaux. But don’t think you can corner me with the pretense of civilized conversation and threaten me into telling you whatever you want to hear.”

  Lawrence backs up a step and smooths the lapel of his jacket. I stand as well now, wanting to equalize the power between us as much as possible. He still towers over me. I’m not as small and delicate as Kathrine, but I’m not what anyone would consider tall.

  “I can’t prove anything—yet, but I know you had something to do with Rosalie’s murder. What I can’t figure out is why Alaric would protect you.” He turns from me and strides to leave, pausing in the doorway to look back over his shoulder. “This will not end well for you, Miss Valmont.” He echoes my words. “You or Alaric. Whatever it is you have done, you should know you won't be the only one who will end up paying for it.”

  And then he’s gone.

  I remain standing for one minute… two… three. When Lawrence doesn’t return, I slip the dagger back into my pocket and drop down to the piano bench.

  How had I managed to draw on a vampire without him noticing?

  Guilt forms knots in my stomach. Rosalie must have meant something to him—that, or he had simply underestimated my ability to protect myself.

  A shiver crawls down my spine from the encounter. I am so used to feeling safe when I am with Alaric, I keep forgetting how dangerous vampires can be.

  I still want to talk to that infuriating man, but he’s probably still in the drawing room with Oliver. No doubt it was the reason why Lawrence chose this moment to have a chat with me.