Ward of the Vampire: Complete Serial

by Kallysten

  “A couple of RSVPs. You checked it already?”

  “Earlier, yes. I was hoping to get some replies tonight from companies I worked with before. If they don’t answer by tomorrow, it’s going to push everything back after Christmas and…”

  And I’d be losing two days of planning out of the very few days I had, but I never finished voicing that thought. As I said the word Christmas, something had suddenly dawned on me. It was stupid, really, because I’d been thinking about Christmas all day and how people wouldn’t be conducting business that day. I’d even insisted for Stephen to go be with his family. I guess at the back of my mind I’d been thinking of it as a Sunday. But it wasn’t just a weekend day. It was Christmas.

  I had one day before Christmas and no presents for my parents.

  I’d meant to do some last minute shopping before taking that flight home. So much for that.

  “What is it?” Mr. Ward asked, and there was a tone of alarm in his voice. “You’re pale as a sheet, Angelina. Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “I’m fine,” I croaked. “I just realized. I don’t have any presents for my parents.”

  “Oh.” He frowned lightly. “Were they in your apartment? I could go back. If you wanted me to, that is.”

  “No, I… I haven’t bought anything yet. I meant to do some last minute shopping.”

  I didn’t add that those plans were seriously compromised; he knew that as well as I did.

  “Well, you still can.” He pushed the laptop toward me. “If you shop from local stores, they should be able to do one-day deliveries.”

  I sat down at the table, biting the inside of my cheek. I don’t like shopping online very much; I like touching what I buy, holding it, checking it out with my own eyes. It was better than nothing, I supposed, although the express shipping would probably be murder on my bank account.

  Apparently, Mr. Ward’s thoughts had followed the same path as mine, because as he stood he pulled a wallet from his pocket and, without a word, set a credit card on the table next to me.

  I was so shocked that I didn’t manage a word until he was already at the door.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, my voice shriller than I meant it to be. “I’ve got money.”

  He shrugged but didn’t reply, his hand twisting on the door handle.

  “Is that how you solve all your problems?” I insisted. “Shove money at people? Like when you got me those shoes, and sent my parents to an event they could never afford? When we first met you accused me of wanting your money, and now—”

  “And now I know you don’t give a damn about it,” he cut in, his voice rumbling. “Listen, if you don’t want to use the card, don’t. It’s my own fault if I forgot yet again that you don’t appreciate me trying to make your life easier.”

  Easier. That’s a word he likes a lot. You’ll see what I mean a little later.

  With that pronouncement, he left the room. I almost want to say he flounced, because after all, if the shoe fits…

  After the door closed behind him, I wasn’t sure whether I was angry or ashamed. He kept trying to be nice, in his own odd, irritating way, and I kept berating him for it. Honestly, I’m not that much of a pain in normal times. I can accept a gift graciously. My problem was the power difference between us.

  He had all the cards. Money, of course, but it was a lot more than that. This was his home. He could go in and out as he pleased. He was able to talk to the person who’d trapped me here without having to fear anything from her. He could arrange to make my stay more pleasant, with improvised shopping sprees or a room prepared for my parents. And also, even if he hadn’t done it since that first night, he could compel me to do whatever he wanted with just one word in the right tone of voice.

  And against him, I could do very little. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t plead with Miss Delilah to release me, not without giving her the means to manipulate me some more. If he wanted to give me a gift, even something much too extravagant, all I could do was accept it, with no way of returning the favor. And I couldn’t even get a grasp on what I felt exactly where he was concerned, because my feelings were muddled by those two trips into fantasy-land.

  I don’t do well in situations where I have no power whatsoever. I can take care of myself—or at least, I like to believe I do. So no, I didn’t use the number on the shiny black card he’d left on the table. I went to my room to get my wallet instead, and muttered a few curse words when I pulled it from the clutch purse Miss Delilah had lent me for the party.

  I ended up buying two art books for my father, full of glossy pictures of art pieces he might get to see if he visited New York’s museums before he left. I bought a scarf and purse for my mother, both designer brands that she’d claim were too expensive, but I knew she’d be proud to show them to her friends back home and tell them they were from her daughter, who was so successful in New York.

  And just because I’d already spent a small fortune and might as well go all out—just because, for once, I wanted to be the one who’d have Mr. Ward in my debt—I also bought something for him.

  I left the room with the satisfaction of knowing that, despite my captivity and the limitations it imposed on me, I’d found nice presents.

  What I didn’t know was that the snow storm that had started earlier would only get worse and worse until Christmas Day, virtually bringing the city to a stop—and delaying all deliveries until after Christmas.

  *

  After returning to my suite, I left the doors open so I would hear my parents come back and settled down with a book. It was close to midnight when they did, and from their muffled giggles, they sounded more like teenagers coming home from a first date than a respectable couple returning from the opera. I’d meant to go ask them about their evening, but I figured I’d ask in the morning and went to bed.

  When I woke up and drew the curtains, I was blinded for a second. Everything outside was a bright, glittering white. We were going to have a white Christmas, it seemed. My first reaction was to smile. I’d never gotten over the childish glee of seeing everything covered in snow and knowing school would be replaced by a day of games and hot chocolate. It only happened a precious few times while I was growing up, but I’d caught up on all those snow-less years since coming to New York.

  The smile, however, didn’t last. The caterer was supposed to come in today. Would the snow change her plans? What about the deliveries I expected?

  Feeling more than a little on edge, I left my suite, thinking I’d go to the conference room and check emails and messages. My parents, however, were waiting for me to pass their room, both of them ready for a cup of coffee—and both of them impatient to tell me about their evening.

  I took them to the kitchen and let the coffee maker work its magic while they took turns narrating their outing in all its details. To be honest, I was only half listening, my mind still on the snow and what it meant for my plans. Funny how, even stuck inside, I worried so much about the weather.

  To go along with the coffee, a bag of pastries waited on the counter, with a short note from Stephen pinned to it. He’d be back on January 2nd, he said, and if I needed anything, grocery-wise, he’d left the number for a delivery service. A quick look into the full-to-bursting fridge, however, left me certain that I wouldn’t die from hunger before his return: far from it.

  “So, where are you taking us today?” my mother asked when we’d all sat down in the dining room to enjoy the coffee and pastries.

  I didn’t know why the question took me by surprise. Really, I should have seen it coming. For years I’d told them about all the things I wanted to show them when they finally came to visit. Of course they’d want to take me up on it.

  “Well, I’m not sure I’ll be able to go out today,” I said after hiding my hesitation behind a slow sip from my cup. “I have a caterer coming in to talk about the gala. Or at least, she’s supposed to come in. With all the snow that got dumped on us, it might take a while for the
plows to clear the streets. And it looks like it’s snowing again.”

  “Oh, right.” My mother’s enthusiasm deflated. “It was starting to snow really bad last night when we got in. That’s why it took us so long to get back. But I thought, you know. This is New York. Aren’t they prepared for that sort of thing?”

  “Usually, yes. But this looks worse than our typical storms.”

  Had there been warnings? I hadn’t had a chance to listen to the news or watch TV in a couple of days, so I had no idea whether meteorologists expected the storm to be over or last longer. Had they named it, too? The past few years, everything weather-wise seemed to be a ‘snowpocalypse’ or ‘snowgeddon’ or some other ridiculous name. The weather had never stopped me from going to work when I needed to, and frankly if I’d been able to get out of the house, I’d have taken my parents out regardless of the snow. But, as things were, it did give me a rather convenient excuse.

  After breakfast, I checked for messages and was glad to hear the caterer was on her way. It’d take her a while to get there, she said, but she was coming and bringing her samples. That was the only message we’d received, other than more RSVPs. Like I’d feared, the holidays, maybe helped by the storm, seemed to have started early.

  I asked my parents if they wanted to do the tasting with me; it’d give them something to do other than explore the mansion, although that did take most of the morning. Their favorite part, I think, was going up to the sun room, and they were both amazed at finding themselves in a tropical oasis when we could see snow swirling behind the glass.

  The caterer and her two helpers finally arrived around eleven. When I commented on her dedication at coming despite the storm, she beamed at me, her cheeks still flushed from the biting cold air.

  “Working for Morgan Ward is such a great opportunity,” she said, “I couldn’t let a little snow get in the way. Will he be joining us for the tasting?”

  He didn’t. Actually, I hadn’t seen him all morning. I didn’t quite know how to feel about that. Was he giving me and my parents some space? Was he upset because I’d refused his money to buy my gifts? Was he just glad to stay out of the way now that I had someone here to keep me occupied? It was always hard to tell why he did anything.

  The tasting took place in the elegant dining room on the first floor. The caterer had brought an assortment of cold and warm amuse-bouches, most savory and a few of them sweet. My parents and I tried all of them, although I had to tease them a little to get them to try things they weren’t used to, like the beef tartar and sushi. All of it was good, and a few were even excellent. If the quality was the same for the gala, it’d be perfect. When it came to choosing, I told the caterer we’d take a hundred of everything. I swear I could see the dollar signs in her widening eyes. Merry Christmas to her.

  Mr. Ward had authorized me to sign contracts on his behalf for the party so I did that. He’d also prepared a couple of blank checks for advances. When the caterer and her helpers left, there was definitely a spring to their steps, and never mind that they were going back into what was beginning to look like a blizzard.

  By now, I had resigned myself to the fact that my presents wouldn’t come in. I tried not to think about it. It wasn’t like I could do anything to resolve the situation, like, say, put on a pair of boots and hike to the closest store. I’d explain to my parents when the time came and make it up to them somehow.

  The amuse-bouche tasting ended up being enough of a lunch for the three of us. When we returned upstairs, my father announced he would go and take a nap. My mother teased him about clinging to his routine when he was in a brand new town, but as my father pointed out, walking out into all that snow didn’t seem all that appealing.

  My mother and I took cups of coffee up to the sun room, and we sat there for a couple of hours, chatting about nothing and everything. For the first time since they’d arrived, I didn’t feel like I was lying to her. It was a nice change.

  It didn’t last, of course.

  “Are you sure Mr. Ward doesn’t mind us being up here?” my mom asked out of the blue.

  It was a rather blatant attempt at making him the subject of the conversation, and I wasn’t sure how not to let it happen.

  “Why would he? It’s not like we’re doing anything to damage the flowers. And speaking of flowers, how are Dad’s rose bushes doing?”

  Yes, it was the lamest redirection I could have come up with, thank you for noticing. My mother didn’t even bother answering and remained on the topic she wanted to talk about.

  “It’s a gorgeous place. Not just the sun room, the whole mansion. And he lives in here all alone, doesn’t he?”

  Oh, how uncomfortable I suddenly felt under her questioning gaze… I felt like I was thirteen again, and having to admit that the boy who’d walked me home was more than a friend. ‘The Talk’ had then followed, and when I’d next seen my boyfriend, I’d been too mortified to even hold his hand anymore, as though with just a touch he’d know everything my mother had said about boys, sex, condoms, and how thirteen was much too early to be thinking about the last two.

  “I guess so,” I said with some reluctance. “Although Stephen lives here, too.”

  Did I mention my mother has the best selective hearing of anyone I’ve ever met?

  “Don’t you find it weird that he lives alone in such a big house? I mean, he could have a girlfriend somewhere in here and we might not even notice!”

  She finished with a laugh, but her eyes did not leave me. This was my mother at her trickiest. She wanted to know if he and I were an item, but if she asked plainly and I said no, that’d be the end of the conversation; whereas if she made little comments like this and watched for my reactions, she might get a different answer.

  I love my mom. I really do. But sometimes she can drive me up the wall.

  There was only one way to put an end to the silliness: give her, in plain English, the answer to the question she wasn’t asking. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t lying. After all, Mr. Ward and I were not, emphasis on the not, together. For that matter, he could hardly say two civil words to me unless we were in his little daydreams. So even if I’d been interested…

  But I wasn’t thinking about that. Not now, as I said, “I don’t think he has a girlfriend, Mom. And if he does, it’s certainly not me.”

  “What? Oh, of course I wasn’t implying that, honey.”

  Yes, she was, but I knew better than to argue the point.

  I redirected the conversation to what we were going to have for our Christmas Eve dinner. Our tradition had always been to have a big dinner on the 24th, then brunch on Christmas Day and another special dinner in the evening. We talked about it for a few minutes, but there was no point in making plans without knowing what we had to work with. So, we went down to the kitchen and took a closer look at what Stephen had left us.

  It was too late to roast the duck, so we’d keep it for the next day. The filets mignons looked like they’d be softer than warm butter. We found a bread machine, and my mother decided to give it a try. I’d spotted a container of Stephen’s lobster soup in the fridge and, after a quick debate with myself, set it to warm on the lowest setting of the cooking range. The taste of it might remind me of things I would rather not think about when my parents were around, but I couldn’t resist, and it’d be a nice appetizer.

  We worked together for a little while, and for the first time since I’d found myself a prisoner in the mansion, I forgot why I was in this house. It was almost like being home again, preparing a nice holiday dinner with my mom while pretending we didn’t know my dad was wrapping last-minute presents in the guest bedroom. We even made some of our staple foods for the holidays, a vegetable casserole and lemon pie for dessert, and the kitchen smelled just like when I was a kid.

  The odd thing was trying to figure out where everything was, but Stephen, it seemed, was nothing if not practical in his organization. Time flew, and it was close to six o’clock when my dad joined us and aske
d where the dishes and cutlery were. We found what we needed, including place mats, but when my dad started gathering three of everything, my mother asked, “Will Mr. Ward be joining us?”

  It only took his name to bring me back to the here and now.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I doubt it.”

  “Well, go and invite him,” she said in the most matter-of-fact voice she possessed. “It’s his house, after all.”

  It felt like she was setting me up, and I couldn’t help being wary, but at the same time she did have a point. Even if he ended up saying no—and I won’t deny that part of me hoped he would, just to cut down on the awkwardness—I had to at least make the offer.

  I tried his room, but there was no answer when I knocked. The conference room was empty. I stood in the hallway, and, as I looked around at the closed doors on each side, I felt a little silly. I’d explored the first and second floors, as well as the sun room, and yet I still didn’t know what hid behind the majority of the doors on this floor—nor did I dare open random ones. I called his name, keeping my voice quiet; he’d said he had excellent hearing, after all.

  A door opened down the hallway, and he appeared on the threshold. I went to him and could see that the room behind him was an office, furnished in the same lavish style as most of the house. The only exception I’d seen so far was his plain bedroom, and I still wondered about that.

  “Do you need something?” he asked, pointedly not inviting me in.

  “No, I just wanted… I mean, my mother asked if you’d care to have dinner with us.”

  I could see right away that he would say no, and indeed his answer was a barely apologetic, “I’m sorry but I don’t think it’d be a good idea. I’m not in a very sociable mood.”

  If he’d said a big meal of human food wasn’t appealing, I’d have let it go. But I wasn’t about to let my mother give me grief about his absence because he wasn’t feeling ‘sociable.’

  “If you never show up for meals, they’re going to start asking questions,” I said, crossing my arms.