by Kallysten
“The first picture I saw, your face was turned the other way, but the caption had your boss’ name and ‘guest,’ and there was something about that guest that looked familiar. So I looked for other shots, and there you were. Your father kept saying it didn’t look anything like you, but I knew it was my little girl!”
As I looked at the few pictures that showed Miss Delilah and me, I had to agree with my dad: it didn’t look anything like me. I rarely wear my hair up like that, leaving my neck and shoulders bare; it always made me feel too exposed. And I don’t wear that much make-up. Not that it wasn’t tasteful, just heavier than I like. It had been Miss Delilah’s work.
Yet my mother was right. Well, she was right that it was me. The ‘little girl’ thing, not so much, but I knew better than to start that battle again.
“So?” my mother said after I was silent for too long. “How was it? Did you meet famous people? How did you even end up there? I thought your boss didn’t take you to parties like that.”
I had to think fast. How much could I tell them?
I couldn’t tell them I’d been compelled to remain in the mansion, that much at least was clear to me. They’d be in New York and bringing the police to rescue me faster than I could finish explaining. And how could I explain it anyway without sounding like a complete lunatic? It might not be the police they brought along, but a team of psychiatrists.
I couldn’t tell them about the vampire thing, either. They wouldn’t have believed me—and again, cue my attempted removal to a soft-padded room. Of course I’d probably die the moment I was carried out of the mansion; if nothing else, it’d prove I hadn’t lied. Small comfort.
No, I couldn’t tell them anything but the most mundane details. And that was exactly what I did.
“It’s the first time she took me to something like that,” I started, trying to stick to the truth. I’m not all that good at lying, especially lying to my parents. “She didn’t even tell me about it, just surprised me with a dress and told me she was taking me along. He’s her brother, you know. Morgan Ward, I mean.”
Was I imagining things, or did my voice shake a little bit when I said his name?
“Oh, yes,” my mother said. I maximized the chat window again and saw her nod. “I’ve read about that. There aren’t pictures of him anywhere. Did you meet him?”
“I did, yes.”
If she only knew how closely I had met him…
“What is he like?”
Tall, dark, and handsome, like the heroes in the romance novels I wasn’t supposed to know she read. She hid them in her bedroom closet, and I’d discovered them when I was fourteen. That summer was full of discoveries as I borrowed one after the other and read under the covers so that I wouldn’t be found out.
Cold, distant, and obnoxious, too, and that made for a much less pleasant picture of him, although just as accurate.
I didn’t want her to believe I had paid too close attention to him, or that I’d had the chance to discover how obnoxious he could be. Both things would have prompted her to ask too many questions I wouldn’t know how to answer.
“He doesn’t look much like his sister,” I said; that revealed nothing about him. “I just got a chance to say happy birthday. He was really busy with all the guests.”
All the guests he’d been trying so hard to avoid…
For a second or two, I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t gone out onto the balcony, or if I’d left when he’d asked me to. Would Miss Delilah have found me again before the end of the night and introduced me to him? Or would she have left without me, allowing me to find out on my own that I couldn’t leave the mansion?
I was so caught up in my ‘what ifs’ that I missed what my mother said next. Only when I noticed she was looking at me expectantly did I realize she was waiting for me to answer… but what was the question?
“I’m sorry, your image froze and I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”
“I asked when your plane is coming in, honey.”
Another question I didn’t know how to answer. I’d forgotten all about my plans to visit them for the holidays. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours…
One thing was sure, at least. With Miss Delilah in Paris, it was rather unlikely I’d make my flight tomorrow. After all, I would be unable to leave the mansion until she walked me out.
“Mom, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll be able to come.”
Her crestfallen expression made me feel guilty—and that guilt made me angry. It wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I still didn’t know why Miss Delilah had chosen me for this twisted game of hers. There had to be a reason—she’d told Mr. Ward I was ‘perfect’ after all, even if I didn’t know what made me so.
“Come on, Lini,” my mother said with a big sigh, and that was just not playing fair. “You promised. We haven’t seen you in almost two years!”
She was right, of course. I had promised to come back for the holidays, and I hadn’t been able to make the trip last year. Miss Delilah had been throwing a big charity gala between Christmas and the New Year, and I’d had too much to do to leave town even for a couple of days.
Right or not, however, it wasn’t up to me. I’d have gladly gone home. And maybe I’d even have stayed there for a while to forget this whole vampire business. But even if I’d contacted Miss Delilah, I doubt she’d have cared about my family plans.
“I really wish I could, Mom, I swear. But something has come up and I can’t get out of it.”
Quite literally.
My father appeared behind my mother’s shoulder. Where her hair was still brown thanks, no doubt, to the coloring skills of her hairdresser, his was more salt than pepper. He seemed as disappointed as she did when he looked at me over the rim of his glasses.
“Is it your job again?” he asked. “Honestly, Angel. You have the right to take vacation days. She’s your boss, nothing more. She doesn’t own you.”
Given the situation I was in, the irony of his words didn’t escape me. No, she didn’t own me. According to her, Mr. Ward did. After all, she’d offered me as a birthday gift to him.
“No, it’s not about her.” I hated lying to them, but what was I supposed to say? “Something else came up. It’s hard to explain. But as soon as it clears up, I’ll be coming to visit, I promise.”
But I had promised to visit for Christmas, so what was my promise worth? That’s the question I read on both their faces, and it was too much disappointment for me to take. Before they could argue any further about something I couldn’t change, I smiled and said, “I have to go now. I’ll talk to you soon, all right?”
They said goodbye, and I shut off the computer. I stared at it for a little while, my mind blank, my heart aching. I missed them, sure, but my numbness came from more than that. I wasn’t used to being a puppet in my own life. I’ve always been a ‘take charge’ kind of person. Even working for Miss Delilah, I’d done what she wanted when needed, of course, but a large part of my job had been fairly independent.
That charity gala thing? I’d planned it all, from beginning to end. Sure, I’d given Miss Delilah regular updates about the planning, and whenever there was a choice, I gave her the options, but she usually picked whatever I suggested was best. She could have planned it herself, and it’d have been just as successful, maybe even more so, but that gala had been my baby, and I’d been damn proud of what I could do.
Now… now I felt like everything was out of my hands. Which of course it was.
I went to bed with that dark thought, and it didn’t make for pleasant dreams or for a nice awakening.
Things grew worse when I turned my netbook back on and checked my email.
My parents had forwarded something to me: a flight receipt.
They were coming to see me.
That? Was not good.
*
When I stepped out of my suite, I had a plan.
You might say it was a stupid plan considering
that the last time I’d gone to talk to Mr. Ward, he’d been his usual grumpy self and had all but slammed his bedroom door in my face, but it was the only plan I could form with my mind in shambles.
My parents are stubborn. When they argue—not often, never about important things, but it does happen—it’s like two mules butting heads. They’re at their most terrifying, however, when they agree: nothing can make them budge then. I had no hope of changing their minds. A plane would land in the New York JFK airport at 4.55 PM, and my parents would be on it regardless of what I had to say.
I went to Mr. Ward’s room, and this time I knocked right away so he wouldn’t accuse me of making too much noise. I couldn’t hear a thing from inside the room. A few moments passed with no reply. I knocked again, still to no avail.
So much for my plan.
I considered opening the door and checking that he wasn’t ignoring me, but I guess some remnant of common sense must have clung to the edges of my mind. If disturbing a wasps’ nest was a bad idea, then certainly disturbing a vampire had to be bad as well. I’d learned the first the hard way when I was a child; I didn’t want to find out how much worse the latter was.
At a loss as to what to do next, I decided to go hunt for a nice, big cup of dark coffee. Maybe it’d help clear my mind and allow me to think my way out of this mess. I went back to the dining room and to the swinging door through which Stephen had brought the food in my last fantasy. I’d figured it might be a kitchen. I crossed my fingers, laid a hand on the door, and pushed.
At last something was going my way!
If the rest of the house was furnished with pieces that belonged in a museum, the kitchen was an oasis of modernity. Stainless steel appliances and counter tops, a commercial stove and double oven, and a fridge that could have contained enough food for a family of ten for a week… It was more like a restaurant kitchen than the kitchen of a man who claimed he didn’t eat much ‘human’ food.
I made a bee line to the counter, on which a fancy espresso machine beckoned me. Now if I could only figure out how to work it…
Before I could dare try to press any of the dozen buttons, the door on the side of the room creaked lightly as it swung open. I turned to see Stephen enter, an eyebrow raised and a look of mild surprise on his face. As always, he was dressed in a perfect livery suit.
“Good morning, Miss Angelina,” he said as he stepped forward. “Anything I can help you with? Like how to get back to your room, maybe?”
So, Stephen was touchy in the morning. Or maybe territorial. Good to know, but right now irrelevant.
“You’re very kind,” I said dryly. “But I think I can find my way. I’d rather you show me how to make myself a cup of coffee.”
He moved closer to the counter, and while he didn’t touch me, it did feel like he was trying to push me out of the way. I held my ground and crossed my arms.
“If you’ll give me a few minutes,” he said, “I’ll bring you breakfast in—”
“I don’t want you to bring me breakfast,” I cut in. “I just want to make my own coffee.”
“I assure you it’ll be quite as good if I make it for you.”
His voice was as dry as Mr. Ward’s at his snarkiest.
“How long have you worked for him?”
He seemed taken aback by the change of topic and frowned at me, blinking over confused eyes.
“I… What?”
“You act like he does, do you know that? Like I’m an invader you can’t wait to get rid of. Like the whole thing is my fault. But it’s not. I’m just a normal girl, not a… a vampire, and not someone who needs her coffee or her decisions made for her.”
That wasn’t at all what I’d meant to say. And it also wasn’t what I wanted to sound like, a little breathless and definitely upset.
But I was upset; it was useless to deny it. Everybody was making decisions for me. Miss Delilah, Mr. Ward, my parents, Stephen… Was it too much to ask for one thing that I could decide and do for and by myself?
Stephen’s expression smoothed out, although his voice remained tense when he said, “Cups are in there.”
He pointed at the cupboard above us. I opened it and found a few black mugs on one shelf. Smaller coffee cups were piled on the shelf above that. I reached for a mug—more coffee to drink—but stilled when Stephen cleared his throat discreetly.
“Those are used by Mr. Ward,” he said.
Understanding came with a flash of memory: during my latest trip down fantasy-lane, I’d watched Mr. Ward drink blood from one of the black mugs. They were probably clean, but still, they had contained blood. I reached for one of the cups instead, set it on the coffee machine, and turned a questioning look to Stephen.
“These,” he pointed at a set of two buttons on either side of a line of small LED lights, “are for the strength of the brew. These, how much you want. That cup is a two. These options are for lattes. Cream is in the fridge. Sugar in that jar.”
With that, he took a step back and linked his gloved fingers in front of him, the perfect image of patience. His sharp gaze, however, made me feel like I was taking a test. If I failed and messed up his fancy coffee pot, no doubt he’d kick me out of his kitchen.
In my very humble opinion, I passed. By which I mean, I managed to make myself a cup of coffee without breaking the machine, scalding myself, or spilling anything. Stephen’s expression remained unimpressed.
“Thank you,” I offered after taking a first small sip of heaven.
He nodded stiffly.
“You are welcome, Miss Angelina. If there is something else you require for your breakfast, I can have pastries or anything else delivered.”
The thought of pastries was rather appealing, but other matters were more pressing than indulging my sweet tooth.
“I need to talk to Mr. Ward,” I said. “It’s urgent. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“I assume you tried his room?”
I nodded.
“There was no reply.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, then. While I do have many duties, none of them requires me to know where my employer is at any given moment.”
How could the man keep his tone so perfectly polite and at the same time inject this much sarcasm in his words? It was a remarkable skill. Not one I enjoyed experiencing, but remarkable nonetheless.
Keeping my annoyance to myself, I finished my coffee and was about to turn to the sink when Stephen held out his hand. He’d probably have an apoplectic attack if I tried to wash my own dishes, and while that would have been a sweet revenge, I was not quite that petty.
At least, not yet.
I let him have the cup, along with another word of thanks, and started for the door. He stopped me with a question.
“Since I have you here, Miss Angelina. What will you take for lunch?”
I was of a mind to tell him I’d prepare my own lunch now that I knew where the kitchen was, but I had a feeling I had trod on his territory quite enough for one day.
“How about more of that lobster soup?”
“More of the lobster soup?” he repeated, frowning. “I’m sorry, but… it was tomato and basil I made for you last night.”
I was about to remind him that was what he’d served me in the dining room, but then it dawned on me. I hadn’t eaten in the dining room last night. I hadn’t eaten with Mr. Ward. And I hadn’t tasted Stephen’s lobster bisque. It had all been nothing more than a fantasy.
“What I mean is…” I tried to think fast. Even if Stephen knew what Mr. Ward could do, I had no desire to explain our shared fantasy to anyone. “Mr. Ward mentioned you make a delicious lobster bisque. I thought it’d be nice to try.”
If possible, Stephen’s eyes widened a little more.
“Mr. Ward mentioned my lobster bisque?” Apparently, he was stuck on repeat mode. “If you say so, Miss Angelina.”
That last bit sounded very much like his all-too-polite version of ‘liar, liar, pants on fire.’
> Was I lying, though? Mr. Ward had to have created some details in that fantasy. I’d never set foot in the dining room before, for example, so it hadn’t come out of my mind, and neither had the soup. So even if he hadn’t expressly told me it was good, the fact that he’d made me taste it in the fantasy was as good as a recommendation.
And my mind was beginning to hurt from trying to distinguish between reality and daydreams.
I left Stephen and the kitchen with some muttering about having to go, and tried to decide where to search for Mr. Ward next. For all I knew, he wasn’t even in the mansion. Thankfully, I soon found out he was.
When I went up to the sun room, I didn’t really expect him to be there. I just thought it’d be a nice place to sit down and have a little freak-out session. But when I reached the circle of chairs in the middle of tropical plants and gorgeous flowers, he was there, right where I’d found him last night after our incursion into fantasy-land. Or almost: instead of sitting in an armchair, he was sprawled on the chaise lounge. Asleep.
Right away, I noticed he was still wearing the same clothes as last night, now rather frumpy. The scotch bottle that had been half full when he offered it to me was almost empty. One of his arms was folded over his face; his other hand was curled over a cell phone on his stomach.
I tiptoed toward him and sat in an armchair on the other side of the low table. I tried to decide whether to wake him or wait for him to wake up on his own, but the choice was made for me when, after only seconds, he stirred, dropped his arm, and opened his eyes, throwing a baleful look toward me.
“What d’you want now?” he muttered, slurring the words a little.
So, he was even more charming than usual when hung-over. What a pleasant thing to discover.
I almost asked him if he often spent the night up here, but he didn’t look up for small talk so I plunged right in.
“My parents are flying into JFK in a few hours,” I said. “They expect me to pick them up at the airport and take them on a tour of the city or something like that. I’m not sure where they expect to sleep, but they’ll probably want to see my apartment at some point. Your mess. You deal with it.”
