Ward of the Vampire: Complete Serial

by Kallysten

  He shook his head, but I didn’t give him time to decline again.

  “Come on, it’s not going to kill you to spend an evening with your guests.”

  To be honest, I expected him to give more than a token protest. I guess I was more convincing than I realized. With a little sigh, he agreed—and I immediately started wondering what I was walking into. My mother already thought there was something going on between us… Would a shared meal deepen her suspicions or dash them? Should I mention something to him, so he didn’t give out signals that could be interpreted the wrong way?

  Before I could decide, he said, “By the way, the presents are in your bedroom. I assumed you’d need wrapping paper, so I figured I might as well get some, too.”

  “Presents?” I repeated, taken aback. “They were delivered? In this weather?”

  “Oh, no. No deliveries. I just saw what you bought in the computer’s history and went out earlier. I could only find one of the art books so I got a different one. And the pattern on the scarf is different, but it’s close. I did my best.”

  I was completely flabbergasted. I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped halfway to the floor. I’d heard and understood every word, but it made no sense whatsoever.

  “You went out,” I said, and with each word, my eyes widened a little more and my eyebrows climbed a little higher. “In that storm. To get presents for my parents.”

  He shrugged.

  “Well, between the holidays and the weekend, you won’t get what you ordered until your parents are ready to leave.”

  It was like the shoe thing, all over again. Another example of how thoughtful he could be, when most of the time he played the role of an uncaring jerk to perfection. Which side of him was I supposed to believe was real?

  I thanked him, because it was the polite thing to do, and walked away before he could ruin the thoughtful act with some asinine comment. Rather than returning to the dining room, I took a quick detour to my suite. I found the gifts and wrapping paper on my bed, like he’d said. I also found, in a pretty leather box, a silver lighter that looked a lot more expensive than the one I’d picked. I had a feeling he hadn’t realized that this gift was meant for him.

  Leaving the wrapping for later, I went back to the dining room, and Mr. Ward came in just seconds after me.

  I expected dinner to be uncomfortable, and in truth, there was some of that. Surprisingly enough, it was also rather pleasant.

  Mr. Ward had opened two bottles of wine, one red, one white, and he ate right along with us, although, I noticed, smaller portions. My mother had seated him at her side, with my father across from her, and me next to my father and across from Mr. Ward. I spent the entire dinner trying not to look at him too much—and feeling, I have to admit, a little miffed that he was talking to both of my parents as though the three of them were old acquaintances. That isn’t to say that I felt left out; no one ignored me, not even him. But it still felt odd to sit across from him, the same way I had in the fantasy. I was so worried I’d say something out of place that I kept a close watch on myself the entire time.

  Between the conversation and the multiple dishes, dinner lasted until late in the evening, and even after dessert we lingered, Mr. Ward telling my parents about how the collection of art pieces and furniture in the mansion had been accumulated by his family over generations. I was sure all of it was a lie, but he was convincing.

  It made me wonder again which side was the real him, and which side was only a mask he put on at will. By the time my parents said good night and retreated to their suite, I still couldn’t tell where Mr. Ward’s lies began and ended. When I started to clear the table, he helped me, and although I was surprised, I didn’t say anything.

  “You’ve been very quiet tonight,” he commented when we were just about done.

  I finished loading the dishwasher and tried to figure out which button to press to start the machine. He stepped closer and pressed it for me.

  Looking at him, I couldn’t help blurting out, “You confuse the hell out of me.”

  The thinnest of smiles curved his lips, although it did nothing to lighten his gaze.

  “Nothing new, then, huh?”

  “It’s not an act, is it?” I said, and I sounded like I was accusing him. “The way you are with them? You’re not forcing yourself to be nice. This is the way you really are.”

  The smile wavered a bit and he pulled away, taking a black mug from the cupboard.

  “What if it is?” he said without looking at me. “What does it matter?”

  He went to the fridge and I was a little baffled to see him open a hidden compartment—a hidden compartment in a fridge!—and draw out an opaque jar. He poured liquid in his mug, and I didn’t look at it too closely.

  “That’s how you were in the fantasy world, too,” I said. “But you said the fantasy was to let us do things we wouldn’t dare do in the real world. So… if that’s you, the real you, why are you always such a pain with me?”

  I held my breath as I waited for a reply. All I got was a quiet, “I’m sorry,” as he started toward the door, his mug in hand, the jar back in its hiding place.

  “That’s not a reply,” I said.

  That slight smile returned for a quick glance.

  “No, it’s not. But that’s all I have to offer.”

  And with that, another non-answer, he left. I’d told him I was confused. It was truer than ever.

  *

  Brunch with my parents on Christmas morning was lovely.

  Or at least it would have been if I hadn’t felt the beginning of a migraine creeping inside my skull. I’d taken medicine right after waking up, but I could already tell this was going to be a bad one.

  Still, I enjoyed the morning as much as I could, preparing French toast and waffles while my dad cooked sausages and bacon and my mother set the table. She put out four placemats, but when I was sent, again, to invite Mr. Ward, I couldn’t find him. To be honest, that was fine with me. I didn’t have it in me to maneuver through another mined conversation. Not only that, but if he wasn’t there, it meant that I wouldn’t be tempted to give him his present. I’d decided that I wouldn’t give it to him. At all. Things were complicated enough between us, no need to muddle it more with gifts.

  Speaking of gifts, my parents liked theirs very much, if their happy exclamations were any indication. I tried not to wince when their rising voices pulsed through my head like sirens, but they noticed my growing discomfort; they’d watched me suffer through migraines for years, and they could hardly have missed the signs now.

  And oh, yes, they did get me a gift, even though their presence, as problematic as it was, remained a gift in itself. They gave me a lovely ring that had belonged to my grandmother and that they’d had resized for me. I’d seen it before, and it was beautiful, but never had the two square rubies set side by side reminded me of anything until that day. Now, they certainly did, and I knew they always would. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

  As soon as all the presents were opened, my mother walked me back to my room. We both knew I wouldn’t have any more food. I was a bit too old to be helped into bed, but it was still nice, as was the cool washcloth she put on my forehead.

  “I think your dad and I will go out for a walk,” she said as she closed the drapes for me, plunging the room into soothing darkness. “It looks nice now that it stopped snowing.”

  “Dress warm,” I mumbled. “Wish I could come with.”

  If she answered, I didn’t hear it.

  I must have drifted into sleep. It was the sound of my name that woke me again.

  “What?” I said, my head pounding as I sat up. The washcloth, uncomfortably warm by now, fell into my lap. I blinked repeatedly to try to clear my vision, but all I could see was a dark shape framed in the open door.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Ward said. “I didn’t realize you were feeling ill.”

  “What d’you want?” I muttered, pressing my hands to my temples.

&nb
sp; “Nothing. It can wait. Do you need anything?”

  If nothing else, I appreciated the quiet tone of voice he was using. I started to say no but changed my mind.

  “In the bathroom.” I gestured vaguely to my side. “By the sink. My migraine medicine. Please?”

  He didn’t make a sound as he crossed the room, nor did he turn the light on in the bathroom, for which I was thankful. Light always made the pain worse. When he came back, he had two pills in the palm of one hand and a glass of water in the other. I took them gratefully and laid back down. Warm or not, I started to put the washcloth back on my forehead, but a gentle hand took it from me. I heard water run. Moments later, the washcloth was back, cooler and comforting.

  “Do you need anything else?” Mr. Ward murmured.

  I was tempted to say, “For you to always be this nice,” but that was too much of an effort. I couldn’t even manage a word of thanks. All I could do was take his hand before he walked away and give it a light squeeze before drifting off.

  When I woke up again, I was a little disoriented. My head still felt heavy, almost rumbling with the echoes of a fading storm, but hopefully the worst of it had passed. I got out of bed, threw some cold water on my face, and set out to look for my parents. Night wasn’t far, I realized; surely they’d come back from their walk a while ago. Try as I might, however, I couldn’t find them. I did find Mr. Ward in the conference room and felt a little embarrassed about him being in my room earlier. Should I thank him? Ask him again what he’d wanted?

  “Your parents went out,” he said looking up from the computer to consider me with a frown. “I got them tickets for The Lion King.”

  I drew a chair and sat down, resting my head on my crossed arms.

  “They’re going to be suspicious that you always happen to have two last-minute tickets,” I said, mumbling a little.

  “I had three. I let your mother inform me that you weren’t up for it.”

  Smart. That way, he wouldn’t look like he knew I couldn’t go out. And it wasn’t like he’d care about wasting money on a ticket that wouldn’t get used. But I cared. Not so much about the money, but about the fact that I was missing something else. I’d seen the show with friends, but it’d have been nice to see it with my parents—like I’d seen the movie with them when I was a kid.

  For a few seconds, the only sounds were the clickety-click of the computer keyboard and the light humming of its fan. I closed my eyes. My head was beginning to hurt again.

  The clicking stopped.

  “Are you feeling better?” Mr. Ward asked.

  I forced myself to open my eyes and raise my head.

  “For the most part. Any more emails?”

  The narrow-eyed look he gave me was downright suspicious.

  “Some RSVPs and a few more offers for the silent auction.”

  “Anything good?”

  “You’ll see when you’re all better. You should go back to bed.”

  I didn’t want to go back to bed, but neither did I want to argue with him. We’d argued enough since I first walked into the mansion. Civilized conversations were nicer, especially when my brain wasn’t up to anything too complicated.

  “Any plans for my parents tomorrow?” I asked.

  He sat back in his chair, letting it rock back and forth.

  “I don’t know. Your dad mentioned the art books. Do you think they’d enjoy visiting museums, or did they get enough with the tour you gave them of the mansion?”

  So, he knew about that. Was there anything happening under his roof he didn’t know about?

  “They’d enjoy it,” I said, thinking on how it’d been one of my plans for them. “We’d talked about going to Ellis Island together. Look up our family and all that fun stuff.”

  “Maybe you could keep that for next time. When you can go with them.”

  “Next time,” I repeated, feeling a little bitter—and a little lightheaded. “Are we certain there’s going to be a next time? What if she never lets me go? What if I’m stuck here until I die of old age?”

  “Angelina…”

  I ignored his quiet interruption; it sounded like little more than a buzz in my ears.

  “You’d tire of me long before that,” I pressed on. “Would you kill me, then? You said you wouldn’t but really, how long until you get fed up with the whole situation?”

  When he stood, part of me wondered if he’d do it now. Kill me. End me. End the damn pounding intensifying in my skull.

  “Stop talking nonsense,” he groused. “You won’t die in here, not at my hand and not from old age. Come on, you need rest.”

  He offered me his hand. As it turned out, I needed it to get back to my feet, and I needed his arm to return to my room. The migraine was back in full force, and my vision was as blurry as if I’d been crying my heart out—which I could have easily done, for no reason at all.

  He got me back in bed and drew the covers over me, like my mom had done—like he had done when Miss Delilah had compelled me to sleep in his bed.

  “More medicine?” he murmured.

  Nodding was a mistake. A stupid, painful mistake. He came back with pills, water, and a wonderfully cold washcloth.

  “How about food?” he asked, still quietly. “Have you had anything to eat at all today?”

  Had I? I couldn’t remember. And anyway, I didn’t think I’d be able to eat anything, or so I tried to tell him. I must not have made myself clear, because some indeterminate amount of time later, he came back with something that smelled delicious and awakened rumblings in my stomach.

  “Soup?” I asked, my mouth already watering, as I sat up against the pillows.

  It was indeed more of Stephen’s delicious soup. Which Mr. Ward fed to me, one spoonful after the other, in a completely dark room so the light wouldn’t aggravate the pain. It was rather surreal.

  He didn’t spill a drop. By the time the spoon was scraping against the bottom of the bowl, I was beginning to fall asleep, and I don’t even remember lying down again. I’m also not sure if I imagined cool lips brushing across my forehead, or if it was just the washcloth again.

  *

  The next time I woke up, it was mid-morning, and the migraine was thankfully gone. After a nice long shower and a big enough breakfast to appease my protesting stomach, I was well enough to go back to work. When I found Mr. Ward in the conference room in front of the computer and he said he’d sent my parents out to a museum, along with reservations at a nearby restaurant, it felt like deja-vu.

  Now, don’t think my parents didn’t care about my well-being. They’d protested Mr. Ward’s offer to go out again, only caving in when he pointed out that there was nothing they could do for me, and I’d feel guilty if they didn’t enjoy their stay just because I wasn’t feeling too well. In truth, I was glad they’d gone. My migraines have ruined enough plans in the past.

  And of course, it wasn’t like I could have gone with them anyway.

  After I emphatically assured Mr. Ward that I felt fine, he agreed to let me get back to work. He’d printed pictures of the auction items, and we spent a little while deciding how to organize the display. We worked side by side, and it was odd to be here with him, so close, focused on the same thing. Odd but not as awkward as I would have guessed from our interactions until now. I’d accused him of being a pain, but he was much less so lately.

  An hour or so passed before I felt compelled to ask, “Any news about your mother?”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Oh. You mean my maker.”

  “I thought you called her ‘mother.’”

  He tapped the pen he was holding onto the table in a fast beat, his eyes flitting over the papers in front of him.

  “Well, yes, but she’s not. My mother, I mean. Not any more than Lilah is my sister. But they’re the closest words to what we are to each other, I suppose.”

  There was something I’d meant to ask for a while… “Is Lilah her actual name? Or is it a nickname?”
r />   “It’s a nickname. I can’t remember the last time I called her Delilah.” His lips twitched toward a smile. “There might have been an obscene number of Samson jokes at one point in our lives, and for decades she refused to answer to the name Delilah. I suppose she got over it if she’s using it again.”

  He looked… younger, for a second or two. Talking about her like this, like she really was a kid sister he was used to teasing and driving crazy, it was easy to forget… all of it. What they were. Why I was here. Everything that had happened.

  But I didn’t want to forget. I didn’t want to let myself get distracted. So I went back to my initial question.

  “So, any news about your maker?”

  Another quick few beats of the pen on the table, then he set it down and pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. He checked it as he answered my question.

  “Actually, yes. Some news. It appears she’s in England at the moment. She was in Paris, then Germany, and now in our house in London.”

  Was that good news? I couldn’t even tell.

  “And you can’t contact her?” I asked, a little annoyed.

  The same annoyance rang back toward me when he said, “I have called her. I left a dozen messages. And texts. I even wrote to her. And sent her an invitation for the gala.”

  I sat up, unable not to let myself hope.

  “Do you think she’ll show up?”

  “I have no idea.”

  At these words, all too common by now, a wave of frustration roiled over me. I didn’t say anything, but Mr. Ward guessed how I felt.

  “I know you don’t like to hear me say it,” he said apologetically, “but if I said anything else I’d be lying. If there’s one thing that she is, it’s unpredictable.”

  I nodded, hoping the gesture was enough to convey that I didn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault, but he had the disadvantage of being the only target for my anger and frustration. I went back to work, or at least tried to, but my mind kept bringing me back to the same questions; my quiet focus from earlier was shattered.