Ward of the Vampire: Complete Serial

by Kallysten

  I won’t lie, watching him blink repeatedly in incomprehension was satisfying. For once, I was the one giving information that was more confusing than explanatory. How sweet was revenge… It even made me forget for a few seconds that the situation was quickly going south in that famous hand basket.

  “Wait.”

  He sat up and turned to me, his back hunched, one hand still clenched over his phone. He raked his other hand through his hair and, no, the way his hair was suddenly standing every which way like a sleepy kid just waking from a nap was not adorable. Not adorable at all. Not when those dark eyes were boring into me, made even darker by his frown.

  “Wait,” he said again. “Repeat all that?”

  I charitably refrained from offering any liquor-related advice and gave him the facts again.

  “My parents are coming to see me. Their idea, not mine. They were kinda miffed that I canceled my plans to go see them. Obviously I can’t go pick them up. Or do anything, really.”

  That last bit came out with more self-pity than I would have wished, and something in Mr. Ward’s eyes made me think that he heard it even with his mind still fuzzy from his drinking.

  But then, maybe it wasn’t so fuzzy anymore because his voice was clear and precise when he asked, “How much time do we have?”

  “Their plane lands at five tonight.”

  He looked at his phone, and I realized he was checking the time. It was almost ten. That gave us seven hours.

  “Okay,” he said, passing his hand through his hair again, although this time to flatten it a little. “Right. We need a story as to why you live in my house. Ideas?”

  I really didn’t have any. Before I could say as much, he stood and started to pace around the chaise lounge.

  “How about… How about your apartment has an infestation of some kind. I don’t know, bedbugs or something. And I offered you a place to stay while the issue is being dealt with.”

  I scrunched up my nose, both because the simple word of bedbugs made my skin crawl and because it was a ridiculous idea.

  “Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “They won’t be suspicious at all that A, I never mentioned my infestation problem and B, I didn’t go to a friend or check into a hotel but moved in with a millionaire I never even knew until two days ago.”

  “Well, they don’t know that,” he protested. “You work for my sister. We could have met…”

  His words trailed off when I shook my head.

  “It doesn’t work. I already told them I’d never met you before coming to the party.”

  He stopped pacing. His frown was back in its full glory.

  “Why would you say that to them?”

  I didn’t like the way he was looking down at me, so I stood. I was still shorter than him, but it was better, especially after I crossed my arms.

  “Because they asked?” I snapped. “Because I don’t know what you’re used to, but I don’t make it a rule to lie to my parents? This is going to be awkward enough. If you make up some stupid story on top of it, you might as well kill me now and be done with it.”

  I didn’t mean it, of course. I was being a little over-dramatic. Just a little. What can I say, my nerves were pretty raw by that point. And for a second, I forgot that him killing me was in the realm of possibility.

  The dark look he gave me reminded me that he was, in essence, a predator.

  And that I might as well have been waving a red cape in front of a bull.

  “I’m sorry,” I said somewhat grudgingly. “I wasn’t thinking. But we’ve got to have a better cover story than bedbugs.”

  He nodded his head once, and we both sat down again. When his brow furrowed, it looked like concentration rather than reprobation. I tried to think, too, but my mind was blank. I couldn’t think of any plausible reason why I’d have wanted to live here, with a man who couldn’t exchange five civil words with me.

  Now if we’d still been in our little fantasy, things would have been a lot easier. I’d have enjoyed spending more time with Morgan, and even introducing him to my parents. I’d never introduced them to a boyfriend, or at least not since high school, and definitely not mere days after meeting him. But Morgan was special, and what he and I shared…

  What he and I shared was nothing more than illusion, and I had the hardest time remembering that.

  “All right,” he said after a little while. “So, they know you came to the party, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “My mom saw a picture of me arriving with Miss Delilah on the web.”

  He let out a small huff.

  “Of course. Lilah was never afraid of cameras. Okay, then. How about this. You came here with her, she introduced you to me as her assistant and said how great you were, and seeing how my PA just quit and how she was leaving town for a couple of weeks, I asked you to fill in as my assistant.”

  It was my turn to frown.

  “And as your assistant I moved in with you?”

  He shrugged.

  “Why not? I like having the people who work for me at hand. Stephen has a suite pretty much like yours down the hall.”

  That wasn’t entirely a surprise, seeing how Stephen seemed to always be around, but I was still nonplussed.

  “Is it true?” I asked. “That your PA quit?”

  “I’ve never had an assistant. But I won’t tell your parents if you don’t.”

  I thought about it, but not for long. It didn’t work.

  “If I tell them I blew up going to visit them simply because you asked me to work for you for a while, it’s not going to go down too well.”

  He let out a sigh.

  “All right. How about if I made you a monetary offer you couldn’t refuse?”

  I shook my head.

  “Same thing. Tell them I chose money over Christmas with them and watch them implode.”

  His voice grew tighter with his frustration.

  “Is there any reason at all why you’d have agreed to work for me? A reason that would not set off World War III?”

  As I thought about it, it occurred to me that this must have been the longest conversation we’d ever shared—the longest real conversation we’d shared. It was a nice change, but not quite as nice as it had been in our fantasy adventures.

  “I don’t know,” I said after a little while. “Last year I didn’t visit them because I was organizing Miss Delilah’s charity gala.”

  He sat up straighter.

  “All right. What if we tell them this: my assistant quit in the middle of planning a charity event, I needed help with the planning, and it was so much work I asked you to stay here to make things easier.”

  It might work; my parents are big on volunteer work and helping those who have less than they do, and as long as I framed it that way, they might forgive me for it. There was only one slight problem.

  “If we tell them I’m planning a charity gala and they don’t see me working on it or hear about it happening soon, they’ll know it was a lie. I doubt it matters much to you, but it does to me.”

  The ice in his gaze might have frozen entire lakes. Or started a new ice age.

  “I just had a party. Against my better judgment. And as a reward I ended up with an unexpected house guest. I am not giving a gala or any other kind of party.”

  It wasn’t easy to match his level of sternness, but I gave it my best shot.

  “Yeah? So you’re going to tell them you’re a vampire? You’re going to flash your fangs at them, scare them, compel them maybe? So they’ll know exactly why I can’t set foot out of here? Or maybe you’re going to give them a nice little fantasy in which I show them all of New York and they never question anything, and they’ll go home convinced everything is fine. Is that it?”

  I’m not sure at what point I stood again, but there I was, towering over him for once, glaring down and hanging on to my anger so it wouldn’t turn to fear instead.

  I was arguing with Mr. Ward. Again. Antagonizing him. Again.


  And his eyes threatened to drown me in darkness. Again.

  *

  Mr. Ward’s gaze broke away from mine. He didn’t argue any further or tell me what I expected: that he didn’t give a damn if my parents were upset with me, or with him for that matter. That none of it was his fault, so why should he try to fix it?

  Instead, he said, “I need a shower,” and stood.

  Had there been a camera in the room, I’m pretty sure it would have taken a rather amazing shot of a ‘what the fuck’ face, courtesy of yours truly.

  It was such a non sequitur that, for a second, I was sure it had happened again. He had thrown us into that fantasy world once more. Our eyes had met, and both times before that was how he’d started it.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  He raised his eyebrows at me.

  “It’s called personal hygiene,” he replied, deadpan. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Not that. The mind-meld fantasy thing. Whatever you call it. Why are you doing it now?”

  “I’m not,” he said with a shake of his head. “Why would you think I am doing it?”

  Could I believe him? I wasn’t sure.

  “You just… you know. Looked at me.”

  “I’m looking at you right now.”

  I threw my hands in the air.

  “You know what I mean. You did your freaky eyes thing.”

  “My freaky eyes thing,” he repeated, the tiniest of smiles curling his lips. “I see. That makes complete sense in your head, I’m sure. But as I am not in your head right now, it makes no sense to me. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  And with no more explanation than that, he started toward the exit. I didn’t let him take more than a few steps before I caught up with him. I was getting tired of his whole ‘I’m not explaining anything’ act, and whether he wanted to talk or not, we weren’t done.

  “What about my parents?” I said. “What are we telling them? Who’s going to pick them up at the airport, for that matter?”

  Rather than listening to me, he was fiddling with his cell phone, typing something as far as I could see, and it annoyed the hell out of me. I did that thing I tended to do with some frightening regularity around him: I acted on impulse. I grabbed his phone right out of his hands.

  I knew how fast he could move. I’d seen him run. His reflexes were top-notch as well. I guess he just didn’t expect me to do something as stupid—as childish—as snatching his phone, which is probably the only reason why I managed to get my hands on it.

  I even had time to read what was on the screen before he pushed past his surprise and snatched the phone back.

  At the top of it, the name of the contact was Lilah.

  The message he’d typed read, Because of you I’m being roped into throwing a charity gala. Thanks ever so much. Still have your guest list from your party last year?

  As I was reading, a reply popped up.

  Always knew she was resourceful. Are you going to share how she convinced you?

  “What are you, five?” Mr. Ward snapped at me as he pocketed the phone. “Has no one ever taught you about touching other people’s things?”

  I stared at him, and not because of his rebuke.

  “You’re in contact with her,” I said, flabbergasted. “She’s got me trapped in here, and you just text her like nothing happened. Like she’s not responsible for… for all of this!”

  His expression turned inscrutable.

  “Do you really think yelling at Lilah or waging a war on her would get us anywhere? You’ve known her for years. I assume you know she can be… stubborn.”

  ‘Stubborn’ was a mild way to put it. She was used to having her way, and when things went awry, she could go to great lengths to put them back on the track she wanted. But that didn’t change anything.

  “You said you’ve been trying to get her to release me. What exactly have you done for that? Other than exchange pleasantries?”

  He held my gaze for a long time, his dark eyes as tempestuous as a storm.

  “You don’t underst—”

  I couldn’t bear to let him finish.

  “Of course I don’t understand! How could I when you never explain anything! Do we have to be in that fantasy world for you to actually talk to me?”

  Muscles clenched and unclenched in his cheek as he ground his teeth. I was sure he’d just storm away again and prove my point, and so was taken aback when he said, “It’s not up to Lilah. She trapped you here because someone…”

  He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

  “Because our maker told her to do so. She can’t release you, not any more than you can leave this house. If I have any hope of getting you free, I need to talk to our maker, but she’s been ignoring my calls, and I don’t know where she is. I think she might be in Paris as well. That might be why Lilah went there. But Lilah won’t say so outright. Maybe she’s been ordered not to. I have a PI taking pictures of everyone Lilah comes in contact with, and if she’s there, I’ll fly to Paris and talk to her. In the meantime, not talking to Lilah wouldn’t help anything.”

  When he finished, he gave me an expectant look, one eyebrow raised and a question clearly inscribed in his dark eyes.

  Was that what I wanted to know? Had he answered all of my questions? Was I satisfied now?

  In truth, it was so much information all at once that I was still trying to process it. It did explain a lot. Not everything, but a lot. It also raised more questions, the main one being why this ‘maker’ wanted me trapped in this house to begin with. I didn’t want to push my luck, though, not when he’d finally given me some information after being so stingy with it.

  “Thank you,” I said on a very formal tone of voice. “For explaining. Everything that’s happening… it’s hard enough as it is. Not understanding anything makes it harder.”

  Even as I said the words, I remembered saying something similar during our latest trip into fantasy. Was this why he was opening to me? Had my words from that place influenced his actions in reality? I never got to ask. He inclined his head once, then started for the door again. He stopped only long enough to glance back and say, “I’ll see you at noon in the small dining room. We need to start planning that stupid gala.”

  For a few seconds after he’d left, I remained where I was, trying to calm my thundering heart.

  It was stupid, really, for me to be so affected by those few words. They’d hardly been an invitation for a date, more like an order. And yet… The small dining room was where we’d dined last night. Well, where we’d dined in the fantasy. Was it a coincidence that he’d given me a rendezvous there?

  No, it wasn’t a rendezvous, more like a business appointment. In the charade we were setting up, I wasn’t his lover or his unexpected guest. I was his assistant.

  Could I play that role? Could I play it convincingly enough for my parents? I wasn’t sure. For one thing, after I went back to my room, I was wondering the same thing I’d wondered about after he’d invited me to dinner: what was I going to wear? I had the hardest time reminding myself that, no, it wasn’t a date, and I didn’t need to change. The jeans and shirt I wore were perfectly fine. For the next hour and half, I made a list on a notepad I found in the desk in my room of all the elements that went into planning a charity gala. It helped me keep my mind occupied so I didn’t obsess over what I was wearing.

  I knew from experience how much work went into planning such a party. Last year, I’d worked on it for two full months. I didn’t know when exactly Mr. Ward intended to have the party, but it would have to be soon to be a credible excuse as far as my parents were concerned. The next few days promised to be very interesting.

  And by ‘interesting’ of course I mean hectic, exhausting and… all right, exhilarating. I can’t say I wasn’t at least a little bit excited by the challenge in front of me. It certainly would be a better use of my time than wandering from room to room for da
ys on end, waiting for Miss Delilah to come back. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure how I felt about working that closely with Mr. Ward. Or at least, I assumed we’d work on it together. His words had implied as much. I already had trouble sorting out what had really happened since I had stepped into his house and what had only been make-believe; I doubted working with him would make it any easier not to see him as Morgan.

  When lunchtime finally came, I took the notepad and pen with me to the dining room. And because I am vain and foolish, I kicked off the ballet slippers I was wearing and put on a pair of high heels. They were navy blue with white stitching, and nowhere as high as the ruby slippers: classy without being over the top. After all, I told myself en route to my lunch-not-date, he’d bought all those shoes for me; I might as well wear them.

  I won’t deny that some silly, clearly delusional part of me had expected, maybe even hoped for the same decor and ambiance as last night. It couldn’t have been further from what I found when I stepped in. The curtains were drawn, and sunlight poured into the room. A lone placemat was set at one end of the table, with a metal dome covering a dish, a glass of water, and a bread roll on either side of it. Just beyond the placemat, two more plates waited: one held a salad, complete with strawberries, almonds, and blue cheese, and the other a slice of—what else—chocolate cake. There was no flower, no candle. Instead, the rest of the table was covered in a bunch of papers and brochures, and Mr. Ward was sitting in front of an oversized laptop at the other end of the table.

  I looked at my notepad and the page and a half of notes I had scribbled, and didn’t feel like an overachiever anymore.

  Mr. Ward looked up when I walked in and gave me an absentminded nod.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Eat. What EmCee did you use for Lilah’s party last year?”

  I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even move. When he looked up at me again, he was frowning.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not a dog,” I said as calmly as I could manage.