by Kristi Cook
Still, I couldn’t get my mind to relax. All I could think about was the fact that Aidan was a vampire—there was no denying it, not now. I’d seen the proof. He’d been transformed, his eyes glowing red, his canine teeth elongated. I didn’t need one of Dr. Blackwell’s books to spell it out for me. A vampire— creature with fangs, drinks blood, hides from the sun. Not a big fan of garlic or crucifixes.
How could I face him, knowing the truth? How could I sit there, looking at him, knowing that he was a . . . a monster? Because that’s what a vampire was—a monster. An undead thing that went around hurting people, sucking their blood. Killing them. Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it down, forced my hands to stop shaking.
Because that didn’t describe Aidan. Or did it? I had no idea what he did when he disappeared, no idea where he went, even. I squeezed my eyes shut. One hot tear trickled down my cheek, and I wiped it away, wishing I could turn back time, that I could forget all this crazy vampire stuff and just be a normal kid with a normal boyfriend.
I reached for a bar of soap, brand-new, and began to scrub my skin with a lathered-up washcloth. I stopped only when my skin began to burn, nearly rubbed raw. Still, I didn’t feel clean. Not entirely.
With a sigh of frustration I switched off the bubbles and flipped open the drain. I had to face him. I had to learn the truth, had to reconcile the Aidan that I knew—that I cared about, damn it—with the monster I’d seen. And then . . . then I could decide what to do. Taking a deep, calming breath, I stood and reached for a towel, trying to force my racing heart to slow. I had to give him a chance to explain. He deserved that, at least.
He said he wouldn’t hurt me, after all, and I believed him.
Minutes later I was wrapped in a soft terry robe, sitting on a velvet chaise by a crackling fire in what I supposed was Aidan’s dressing room. A big armoire stood against one wall, a standing mirror beside it. Other than the chaise I was sitting on, there was no furniture in the room. Still, the room was as big as some of our bedrooms back home.
A knock sounded softly on the door, and I sucked in my breath.
“Violet? Can I come in?”
“Yeah, I . . . it’s fine.” I cleared my throat and clasped my hands together in my lap. They’d have to stop shaking at some point.
Without making a sound, Aidan stepped in and closed the door, leaning back against it and watching me from across the room. It was as if he wanted to stay as far away from me as possible. Whether this was for his benefit or mine, I had no idea.
“So now you believe me,” he said softly. His blue-gray eyes looked so sad, so haunted. He looked exhausted, vulnerable— nothing like the killing machine I’d just seen in action. “My God, Violet. I could feel your fear, your revulsion.”
“Just . . . just tell me everything,” I said, trying to make my voice steady and sure. “Who are you, really?”
“I’m Aidan Gray, just as I said. The fourth Viscount Brompton, or at least I would have been. Instead, I am this.” He spread his arms wide. “A monster.”
Gooseflesh rose on my skin, and I wrapped my arms around myself. Hadn’t I thought exactly that, just moments ago? I pushed aside the prickle of guilt, willing him to continue.
“I was born into privilege in 1875,” he said, his voice hard. “The son of a peer. I was schooled at Eton, and set to take a grand tour of the Continent before continuing my studies at Cambridge.” He paused, watching me, as if he were gauging my reaction.
“I was seventeen then, arrogant and rebellious,” he continued on. “Just days before I was to leave on my travels, I accompanied my parents to the opera. Though I didn’t enjoy the music, I found I very much enjoyed watching one of the opera dancers, a beautiful girl with eyes the color of emeralds. Just like yours, Violet. Isabel intrigued me. I went backstage to meet her that very night.
“After that, I spent every spare moment with her, abandoning my travels. I even set her up in a small town house in Soho Square, where I spent most of my nights.”
“But . . . but you were just seventeen,” I muttered. His nights, he said. Which meant in bed, with her. The jealousy I felt surprised me, caught me off guard.
He shook his head. “Those were different times. I was considered a man at seventeen, and as a viscount’s heir, I possessed a sizable income and a great deal of independence. Still, my father was not pleased. One night I went to the opera house as I always did, to accompany Isabel home. I waited outside the theater door, as was our custom, but she never appeared. I hurried to Soho Square, but all her things were gone. She left no note, nothing. For weeks I searched for her, my heart broken as only a young, besotted boy’s can be. I hired a Bow Street Runner, and for several weeks heard nothing. Finally, I received word that she’d been seen in Whitechapel, working in some seedy public house.
“I went looking for her, and ended up in an alley somewhere, my valuables stripped away and my throat slit. It would seem a vampire stumbled upon me in that state, had a little snack, and then turned me, though I’ve no idea why. I was simply left there, unconscious, with no memory of what had happened to me. I went back to the town house, to recover from what I thought to be my injuries. Yet suddenly I had these unexplained . . . abilities. After that, I was quickly able to track down Isabel.
“Turns out my father demanded her dismissal from the opera, and threatened her if she continued our association. Still, I needed her, and she agreed to shelter me. Not wanting to return to the town house where my father would no doubt find us, we holed up in Whitechapel instead. Isabel said I would often disappear at night and come home in the morning disoriented, sometimes covered in blood. Though we could barely credit the notion, we both suspected what I had become.
“Soon after, there was unrest in the streets. A mob formed, claiming there was a monster in Whitechapel, out hunting at night. They had tracked me down, and they surrounded us, carrying torches and calling for my head. We tried to flee, to evade them. But”—his voice broke—“they got Isabel. I tried to save her; tried everything I could think of, but it was too late. Isabel was dead, and it was entirely my fault.”
“It wasn’t,” I argued, but he ignored me, continuing on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Dr. Blackwell was in London then, the leading authority on preternatural folklore. It’s a brilliant cover—cloaking it all in myth and legend. Anyway”—he waved one hand—“I went to him, told him my symptoms, and he confirmed what I’d already come to believe. I spent many years in seclusion after that, trying to come to terms with the impossible. Still, I inherited everything upon my father’s death, thanks to the unbendable laws of primogeniture. They had no idea what I’d become, of course. God only knows I wished I was dead instead.”
Again he paused, watching me intently.
“Go on,” I urged, feeling oddly detached, as if we were sitting around a campfire, telling scary stories. It was all just so surreal.
“Those were my darkest years by far. Then, just before the Great War, I decided to fight this curse, to try and cure it. I traveled extensively throughout the Continent, learning everything I could about vampirism, trying to sort out the myths from the truth. I met others like myself. Now and then we would form loose alliances, stay together for a few years, but eventually we’d part ways. Most did not share my optimism that a cure could be found. I refused to give up.
“But things have become more complicated in the modern world. It’s not always easy to get access to the kinds of biological agents and chemicals I need. When I heard about Winter-haven, learned that Blackwell was here, I set sail for New York on an ocean liner where several passengers fell inexplicably ill with anemia.” He paused, smiling at his own joke.
“You didn’t . . . kill them?”
He looked taken aback. “No, of course not. Is that what you thought—that a vampire’s bite meant certain death?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.” I shrugged. “Either that, or it turns them into a vampire.”
Apparently that amused him
, because he laughed. “No, it takes much more than that to make a vampire. And there’s no reason for a vampire to kill his victim, unless he wants to. One can simply drink enough to slake the thirst. A little here, a little there.”
All I could do was nod, willing him to continue.
“Anyway, I spend four years at Winterhaven every decade or so. Blackwell makes sure the faculty forgets me between my stints there. Occasionally I change my name.”
“Because it . . . it wouldn’t be okay to have a vampire there?” I stuttered.
“No, it wouldn’t.” He shook his head. “Vampires must remain entirely secret from the rest of the world, even the psychic world. It’s part of our rules, our laws. So in between my time at Winterhaven, I travel, or stay in Manhattan. My work is ongoing, even now.”
“And have you managed to develop a cure?” I asked. “I mean, is it really possible?”
His entire face lit up with hope, his features animated. “It’s entirely possible, and I’ve come very close. Vampirism is nothing more than a sort of . . . parasitical infection, you might say. For now I can extend the period between feedings, subdue the cravings, lessen the symptoms. But it’s not quite enough, not yet. It’s only a temporary sort of cure, and not systemic.”
Wait—something he’d said earlier finally registered in my brain. “You said Dr. Blackwell was in London, back when you were . . . you know, made what you are.” God, I couldn’t even say it. “How can that be?”
His eyes met mine, steady and direct. “Think about it, Violet.”
“Oh my God!” The truth hit me. “He’s . . . he’s one too?”
“Yes. I hadn’t meant to tell you, though I suppose there’s no getting around it.”
“But . . . but I’ve seen you—both of you—out in the daylight. How can that be if, you know . . .” I trailed off miserably.
“The elixir. With it I can withstand the sun without any negative effects. Once it begins to wear off, I’m forced to utilize Winterhaven’s underground passageways during daylight hours. And I doubt you’ve seen Blackwell in the sunlight.”
Actually, now that I thought about it, I hadn’t.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I need the elixir. Which is why I was so . . . discomposed . . . when you found me in my lab, all my work destroyed, all the vials I’d stored there gone.”
“But you have some stored somewhere else, right?”
“Of course. I keep some here, and all my notes are backed up. Still, whoever destroyed the lab, their intention is clear. They want to stop me.”
“But who would do such a thing?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
He raked a hand through his hair. “One of my kind, I suppose. There are those who wish to see my work stopped, who fear that, were a cure developed, it would be used against them. These are the most dangerous of our kind, the ones who feed from innocents, who enjoy taking lives. What I can’t figure out is how they gained access to Winterhaven without me sensing their presence.”
“So, what do you do now?”
“I go on with my work. I won’t be cowed into submission. Blackwell will find out who did this, and they will be punished.”
It all seemed so crazily rational, and yet it didn’t change the fact that Aidan was a vampire. Fear still niggled at my mind. “So, where do you, you know . . . drink?”
“I feed here in the city, for the most part, though occasionally I venture farther afield. I only hunt those who hunt humans—criminals, murderers, rapists. Evil for evil. I like to think I’m personally responsible for the city’s low violent-crime rate,” he said wryly, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. I said nothing, just waiting for him to continue.
“It’s where the mind reading comes in handy—I go out seeking people who are looking for trouble. I can see into their souls when I’m feeding from them, you know. If I sense some good in them and their mind is malleable, I plant a warning—a threat—and let them live. But those whose souls are entirely black, I kill.” His gaze finally met mine, as if he wanted to impress the point on me. “Let’s just be clear on that point, Violet—I am a killer, a monster.”
I took a deep breath, tapping my intuition, prodding it for all it was worth. Was he a monster, or just a more complicated version of the guy I’d come to care about way too much?
I watched him closely, allowing my instincts to guide me as they always had. I could sense his indecision, his own struggle between self-loathing and acceptance. But try as I might, I couldn’t quite see the monster he wanted me to see. All I saw was . . . Aidan.
I let out my breath in a rush, relieved at the strength of my certainty. Even though I’d seen him in action tonight, seen things that scared me senseless, I knew that, at his core, Aidan was good. He was the same Aidan he’d always been, and my feelings for him remained intact.
Gathering my courage, I rose from the chaise and slowly made my way across the room, drawn to him. “You’re not a monster, Aidan.”
“You saw me that night in the lab,” he said, taking a step away from me. “I have no idea what I might have done had you not run from me. I haven’t been that out of control in . . . well, in a very long time. I was upset, and you were bleeding profusely. Still, I can’t excuse it—”
“Stop,” I said, reaching for his hand. Cold. It was cold as ice, and that same frisson of electricity passed between us, as always. “We do have some sort of connection, don’t we?”
“Probably one best ignored,” he said, brushing my burning cheek with the back of his hand. I knew I should be frightened, but I wasn’t. I trusted him, maybe more than he trusted himself.
“Why?” I asked. “Why do you always draw me in and then push me away?”
His eyes widened slightly, as if he was surprised by the idea that he was doing that. Or maybe he was just surprised that I noticed. Either way, his grip tightened on my hand before he spoke, his words careful. “You’ve got to understand that whenever I’m with you, there’s this battle raging in my mind. The selfish part of me wants you, wants you to accept me, to care about me. But the other part . . .” I saw him shudder, and he took a deep, rattling breath before continuing on. “The logical part of me wants to protect you from me, because how can I ever be sure I won’t hurt you? Or that someone else won’t? The last woman I truly cared about was killed. Because of me,” he added, his voice catching. “I want to protect you, but I don’t want to treat you like some fragile flower, because you’re not. You’re smart, Violet, and strong. I know that. Still, I have to remember that you’re not like me. You’re mortal, and that makes you vulnerable to things that I . . . I don’t really want to consider.” He closed his eyes, as if trying to block out unpleasant images.
I rose up on tiptoe and kissed his eyelids—one, then the other. They were slightly damp, salty. “You’ve got all that going on in your head, every time you’re with me?” I asked in amazement.
“Every time,” he answered, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine. The fear I saw there, the terror, nearly took my breath away.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, wanting more than anything to take that fear away, but knowing I was helpless to do so. “Wow, that’s taking teenage angst to a whole other level, isn’t it, Aidan?” I teased, trying to lighten the mood. Because otherwise, I was going to cry.
“Your stepmother isn’t expecting you,” Aidan said. A statement, not a question. But he was right, she wasn’t. “Stay here tonight. With me.”
Any sane person would have said no, would have gotten the hell out of there as quickly as possible.
I said yes.
15 ~ Falling Stars
An hour later, I lay snuggled beneath a blanket, staring up at the night sky. Aidan had an entire garden up on his roof—potted trees, chaise longues covered with plush cushions. It was perfect. The night’s horrors were forgotten as I lay there drowsily, struggling to keep my eyes open as I traced the constellation Orion with one finger.
“I don’t want this night to end,” I murmu
red, turning my head toward where he stood a few feet away, leaning against the door, watching me.
“We should go in,” he said. “You’re exhausted, and it’s getting cold.”
“Not yet. Hey, do you sleep at night?”
“Most of the time,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “In a bed, in case you’re curious. Not a coffin or anything like that. I have no idea whose bright idea it was to propagate that particular myth.”
“And other times? When you don’t sleep?”
“I work on my research. Sometimes I feed.”
I shuddered at the word “feed.” It just sounded so . . . animalistic. Like he was some sort of beast, put out to pasture.
He must have noticed my reaction. “It’s what I am, Violet. To accept me, you must accept that I’m a predator. A killer. I want you going into this with your eyes wide open. It’s the only way I can justify it.”
“What about that first night you took me to the chapel? You had a cut on your head, and you wouldn’t tell me how you got it. Were you . . . you know?” I still couldn’t say it.
“Yes, I had gone to feed. Things didn’t go quite as planned.”
Huh. I didn’t dare ask what he meant by that. Instead, I sat forward on the chaise, taking in the view beyond the rooftops surrounding us. I could just make out the Metropolitan Museum of Art, off in the distance. “I still can’t believe I almost got jumped,” I said, shaking my head. “I mean, what are the chances of that? Statistically speaking, the city’s pretty safe.”
“Unless you go looking for it,” he replied.
My gaze snapped over to his. “You think I went looking for it?”
He nodded. “You needed to see it—to see what I am—to truly believe it. Your intuition just helped you along, told you where to find me.”
