by Kallysten
He had been sure she would come to him, despite their spat from two nights earlier. She wasn't the type to pout or keep her thoughts, good or bad, to herself, and he had been ready to argue his point and demand an explanation. Ready to listen, also, this time, now that the burning ache of her betrayal had faded to a dull throb.
However, she hadn't joined him. He had wondered, a few times, if she might be following him without letting her presence be known, but he had been attentive to all noises around him the previous night and now again, and he didn't believe she was around.
And he missed her.
It had been months since he had last gone so long between seeing her. The last time had been after she had accidentally killed that human, when she had been sure he would stake her. This ache was ten times worse than it had been the last time. He would never have believed he would miss her quite that much, not after less than forty-eight hours. Then, he had never believed either he would ever feel for her what she had claimed to feel for him. He had obviously been wrong on both counts.
He missed her too much.
Giving up on his hunt, he directed his steps toward her mausoleum. He wasn't exactly rushing there, but he wasn't taking his time either. He had to see her, had to ask her what that had all been about, had to understand. Had to make her understand.
A fool hope was promising him that once she knew, once she realized he missed her so much and why, everything would clear up and they would be back to how things had been before, except better because now he wouldn't feel so guilty anymore about taking advantage of the situation, of her feelings. They would be a real couple, or as much as a vampire and a human could be. More than a couple. Mates.
Yes, he knew he was being a fool.
He knocked on the heavy door of her mausoleum, but there was no answer. He knocked again, louder, and upon leaving the wood, his hand went straight to his neck and mindlessly rubbed at the suddenly stinging bite marks. When he still didn't get an answer, he pushed the door and stepped inside.
The mausoleum was dark, darker than usual; of the three torches that provided light in the front part of the edifice, only one was burning. It made the space seem larger, somehow, the shadows untouched by the light almost impenetrable.
"Lilia?” he called out as he stepped deeper into the room, his steps echoing behind him. “Come on, we've got to talk."
The answer he hoped for never came, and, slightly hesitant, he went to the wall that concealed the entrance to her bedroom. “I'm coming in,” he announced loudly as he stepped over the invisible boundary. “I just want to..."
A few steps into the bedroom made it clear that it was as empty as the front room. By the look of the bed, he had the feeling that she hadn't slept in it since he had left. He could still see the imprint his body had left on the overly soft mattress, and right in the middle of it, where he had dropped and forgotten it in his haste, laid a pack of cigarettes.
"Where are you?” he murmured as his gaze swept over the room, looking for a hint as to where she had gone. There was nothing however, and, disappointed, he left the room and then the mausoleum.
As he stood outside, in front of the door, he wondered once more where she could be. He pushed back the fleeting thought that she might have gone back to the club after he had left, found another man and stayed with him; he couldn't bear to think of that possibility. He remembered how, after killing the human by accident, she had gone on a drinking binge. Was she, maybe, in a bar, drowning her anger into alcohol, or so completely drunk she had passed out somewhere? Or maybe ... maybe she had left town. That thought was somehow worse than the idea she might have found refuge in another's bed.
He would give her a couple of days, he decided; she had after all appeared to be as upset as he was. Once she was ready to talk, she would come to him. He knew she would. If nothing else, the pull of being Mated to him would bring her back.
Or so he hoped.
* * * *
"I'm very disappointed, Lilia."
Lilia wasn't sure what was worse, the swishing sound of the whip slashing the air before it hit, the pain when it did, or the tranquil ice of Nathanael's voice. He was always at his nastiest when he sounded serene and composed. Trying to ignore him, she focused on the feel of her blood running down her naked back, across her ass and down her legs before it pooled at her feet. Even so, she could still hear every one of his words, just as she could feel the eyes of the minions on her, or smell both their fear and excitement. From Nathanael, she could only discern the scent of his concealed anger.
"I thought you knew me well enough to realize if there's one thing I truly cannot stand, it's to be made a fool."
The whip fell again, heavy and unforgiving, and someone cried out. Lilia was almost surprised to realize it had been her. She had been trying hard to keep quiet, knowing from having witnessed it in the past that shouts only encouraged Nathanael to strike harder.
"Did you even think about the example you were setting for the rest of the clan?"
Her resolve to remain silent hadn't lasted long, but Lilia clung to her refusal to give him an explanation. It wouldn't help anything; on the contrary, it might make things worse. And it wasn't as if he really wanted her to answer, anyway. He didn't care about how things had happened, and why she had Mated with a human. All that mattered to him was what he would do about it. It was all a show, for the benefit of the entire clan assembled in a circle around them. A punitive lesson for her, a preemptive one for the others. She had seen him do this too often before not to realize it.
"Working with a human who kills your own kind?"
The leather dug in deeper; the next hit was even harder. Lilia let her head hang down, and focused her gaze and thoughts on the fading bruises, shaped just like fingers, that graced her hips.
"Fucking the enemy?"
The beating stopped for a second and she could hear fingers snapping once. Lilia squeezed her eyes shut, taking in a deep breath; she wished she hadn't known the scurrying feet were that of a minion, bringing a fresh weapon to Nathanael.
"Mating with a human?"
She arched as far as her chains would allow, but there was no escape from the flogger; no escape from the leather strands that had been soaked in holy water. No escape from the pain as fire seemed to seep below her skin and consume her from the inside out.
On the last hit, the tip of a strand came to lick at the edge of her Mating scar, and Lilia threw her head back as her shout morphed into a sob at the throbbing that radiated through her body. Nathanael's steps echoed in the otherwise utterly silent room as he walked around and came to stand mere inches in front of her. When he cupped her face, it was almost with the same rare gentleness he had occasionally offered her over the years and that had made her believe, for so long, that he did love her as much as she had once loved him.
"Yes, Childe, cry,” he murmured as he softly stroked her wet cheek with his thumb. The smile curling his lips however was anything but gentle. “It will take many tears before I decide what to do with you. And a little begging wouldn't hurt either."
She didn't flinch when he bit over the marks that bore witness to her turning; they were his, he could do with them as he pleased. But even if she knew better than to resist, she couldn't prevent her body from tensing, her hands from tightening in the chains that held her up when he tilted her head to the other side and tore into her Mating scar.
In the past, having him take her blood and being allowed, a few precious times, to take his in return, had been one of the most powerful experiences Lilia had known, as well as one of the most erotic ones too. But when he bit her so harshly that it seemed he was trying to erase the mark Vincent had left on her, all she felt was the overwhelming sensation that this was wrong; his fangs didn't belong in her anymore, least of all there. She was Vincent's, as much as Vincent was hers, and it had never been so clear as it was at that moment. Somehow, the thought helped when Nathanael let go of her neck and, stepping behind her, asked for the whip again.
Or it did until she remembered, in painful detail, her last encounter with Vincent, and the way they had parted. Had he even noticed she had vanished? Would he realize something was wrong before their Mating link informed him of her death and drove him insane?
This time, she didn't try to stop the tears when they started rolling down her cheeks.
* * * *
Back home after a shortened patrol, Vincent helped himself to a glass of wine before reaching out for a heavy, ancient book on the shelf. He sat down on the sofa before opening it, using the large satin ribbon to find his place. Immediately, Lilia's face appeared, and he unconsciously smiled as he touched a finger to the portrait.
With slow sips of wine, he read her biography again, skimming past the few lines describing what was known of her life as a human and going straight to her vampire existence. Some part of him, deep down, was hoping that by reading about her again, by getting to know what she had done in the past, he might be able to understand her better and, maybe, figure out what had happened. Why she had first told him she loved him, then searched for another lover. Why she had left without an explanation.
He fell asleep on the sofa, the empty glass escaping his hand to roll on the carpet. And, as he had been so sure he would, as he had even hoped, he dreamed of Lilia.
* * * *
Vincent is still panting, still shaking, still seeing stars despite his closed eyes and the blindfold over them, and his only thought is summed up in a single word that escapes his lips every so often without his consent or knowledge.
"Wow."
With tender, so tender gestures, Lilia unties the fabric around his ankles, first one then the other, massaging lightly and even kissing with barely more pressure than a butterfly wing where the bonds have chaffed a little. Then, dropping kisses here and there along his body, she moves back up and repeats the process with the bonds that hold his wrists to the headboard. At last, at long last, Vincent is free, but he realizes there's no reason to move, nowhere else he wants to be.
He was ready for anything, when coming to her, as she had asked. But what he has received is the last thing he would have expected. The pain and bite he feared have been utterly absent, and in their place there have only been touches so soft they were barely there, yet so arousing they had driven him insane in minutes. If asked what Lilia has done to him, he might struggle for a word, and might, just might, eventually choose ‘worshipped'.
She lies down against him, and the coolness of her flesh is delightful against his heated skin. He expects her to remove the blindfold, too, but she doesn't reach for it. He turns his face toward her, hoping that she will take the hint, but still she doesn't move. He is sure however that she is watching him, he could swear he can feel her eyes on him, just like he could when she first blindfolded him and stood without touching him for a while.
The silence, comfortable and complicit, becomes suddenly heavy.
"Lilia,” he murmurs. Almost questions.
"Remember when you asked why I didn't want to turn you?"
With his brain still mostly short-circuited by pleasure, Vincent is not sure he does remember, but it doesn't seem to matter because she continues without waiting for his answer.
"Would you like to know now why I don't? Why I won't?"
Part of him couldn't care less and only wishes that she would drape herself over him so that they could sleep a little. That's why he is surprised to hear himself answer with a yes.
"I thought about it that first day after we Mated. And the idea of being linked even more closely than I already was to someone I couldn't stand felt dreadful."
His whole body tenses against her at her words, and his hand flies to the blindfold, ready to tear it away so that he can see her, at last, and understand better what she is saying. But her hand is there as fast as his own, and she stops him, laces her fingers with his, soothes him, and continues talking.
"It's different, now. I don't want to turn you, Vincent Jordan, because you wouldn't be Vincent Jordan anymore. The very core of you would be the same, maybe, as well as the memories and all that you know, but ... Vampires aren't the same persons they were as humans. They change, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, and there's no way to tell beforehand which it will be."
Vincent wants to tell her that he knows all that, that he has said as much to many parents, spouses, children and friends in the past to explain to them why the vampire wearing a face they knew was not who they thought it was. Again, she speaks before he does.
"So, you see, I can't turn you. I would lose you if I did. I would get to keep you forever, but it wouldn't really be you. Not the you I fell in love with."
She finishes with a whisper, and lays down her head at the crook of his shoulder. This time, when he reaches for the blindfold, she lets him. He removes it and stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, unsure of what, if anything, he can say or do, unsure of what just happened. He came here to prove to her his trust, but he thinks that, maybe, by telling him this, she has proven to him that he has earned hers, and he's not quite sure what he's supposed to do with it.
Chapter 18
Nine days had passed in a slow trickle of hours and worry since their argument when Vincent found it. He had just come out after nightfall, thoroughly uninterested in yet another lonely hunt, and was locking his door when his gaze fell on the piece of jewelry right in front of him. It had been hooked through the metal scrollwork that covered the etched glass panel on the top portion of his door. For an instant, he didn't recognize it, so covered in dried blood. But when he picked it up and ran a thumb over the central pattern, the blood flaked away, revealing silver scrollwork and sapphires.
It was one of the earrings he had offered Lilia.
Did her blood cover it?
His heart skipped a beat at the thought, but he refused to let fear take hold. If she had died, he would have known, the Mating claim would have seen to it. He had clung to that idea for the past nine days, repeating to himself that she was somewhere, safe; whatever had happened to her, wherever she had decided to go, she wasn't dust. But there was more than that.
He couldn't believe that she would have come to his door, left the earring there and gone away without talking to him. It just wasn't possible. That meant someone had taken the earring from her, covered it in blood, and sent it to him. As a message, perhaps? A warning? At the very least, it meant that someone had Lilia.
He went to her mausoleum, running the whole way. He had been there again five days earlier, and had spent the entire day and night there, hoping without believing that, maybe, she would come back. After that, he had told himself that she had to have left town. Had he perhaps missed a clue? Was there something in there that might point him in the right direction?
There wasn't much to see in the main room, nothing out of place. He walked into the hidden bedroom and lit what remained of the pillar candles, looking for a sign, anything that would show someone had come in. Again, he saw nothing. The room was exactly as he remembered it.
Growing more worried with each passing second, he walked out of the mausoleum, and hesitated for an instant before finally deciding on a destination. If Lilia hadn't been taken in her mausoleum, it might have happened in front of witnesses. Someone had to know something. He just needed to find the right person.
His first stop was in the entertainment district of the town. Blood bars, where humans paid a few dollars, chose a vamp, and enjoyed the thrill without the risk, were part of this gray area the law didn't cover, and they were almost always in back alleys, unmarked doors that opened only for the right words.
Vincent didn't bother with passwords. He showed his license through the spy hole, and the vamp behind the door knew enough to realize that not opening was riskier than letting him enter.
To every vampire in the club, Vincent asked the same questions. Did they know a vampire by the name of Lilia and had they heard anything about her recently. He received a few glares, some uninterested shakes of h
ead, a couple of fearful looks and a few invites to try another vampire rather than the girl he was looking for, but he didn't get any useful information.
He went to three other blood bars after that, again asking the same questions and getting no useful answer in reply. When he exited the last bar, he could have screamed in frustration. A handful of the vampires had acknowledged that they had heard of Lilia, but all they knew was that she had turned coat and was working with a human to destroy her own kind. That was the only slightly interesting fact he had learned that night. If random vamps knew what she did, maybe others did too. Others, such as the members of her clan. Vincent had wondered, more than once, why Nathanael allowed one of his Childer to act as Lilia did, but she had refused to even broach the subject of Nathanael, once pointing out that she had said more than enough while under the truth spell. Could it be that Nathanael had caught up with her?
Out of ideas as to whom to ask and frozen both in his mind and body, he returned home as the sky was growing darker just before dawn arrived. Habit rather than deliberate thought made him undress, shower, and settle into bed; but for hours, all he did was toss and turn, and try to think of a way to find Lilia. An idea finally came to him a little before noon, and he hurriedly got clothed and ran out of the house, clutching the earring in his hand.
Don's store was in the center of town in the shopping district. It was a dream Vincent could remember his friend talking about ever since Miss Wallhorst in seventh grade had had them write a report on what job they wanted to do when they grew up. Vincent's chosen career at the time had been banker by day, fireman by night. Don's, already, had been to work in a bookstore. Not just any bookstore, but the one they had passed on a trip to the town's museum. The bewitched sign in the front read ‘Other Worlds’ in glittering letters, with in smaller script ‘mystical books for the open-minded reader'. By sixteen, Vincent had changed his mind a dozen times about his career, but Don hadn't, and he had overcome his shyness long enough to ask the old owner if, maybe, he needed help after school hours, even the unpaid kind. Four years later, the owner had died childless, and his will had designated Don as the new owner of the shop and what it contained. It wasn't the most profitable business in town, but Don often proclaimed he never expected to become rich with it. It had been his dream, and it was enough that he had realized it.
