Ward of the Vampire: Complete Serial

by Kallysten

  “I didn’t mean—”

  But I didn’t want excuses.

  “Have you done this before?” I insisted. “Have you come here and designed a party dress for another woman? Several women?”

  She sighed softly.

  “Just one. And it was years ago, when I was starting in the business. I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Is it okay if I take your measurements now?”

  I stood and let her measure what she needed, and the entire time I tried to tell myself not to be an idiot. It wasn’t like I hadn’t suspected this. Stephen had told me Morgan had had human guests before. And if Camille, the shoe lady, hadn’t actually said it wasn’t the first time she’d brought half her store to the mansion for a private shopping session, her demeanor had certainly suggested as much. For that matter, even Morgan had admitted that Miss Delilah had offered him ‘gifts’ like me in the past.

  I should have seen it coming, but then why did I feel so betrayed? Why was the first thing I asked Morgan when I returned to the conference room, “Do you do this with every slave your sister gives you? Buy them shoes and dresses and…”

  My voice trailed off when he stood, standing close enough that he towered over me, his expression tempestuous, his eyes darker than ever.

  “A slave?” he said, and the word sounded like a curse in his mouth. “When have I ever treated you like anything other than a guest?”

  I gestured at the table.

  “You put me to work!”

  “Only as a decoy for your parents! I’ve been telling you for days I could finish the preparations on my own!”

  Which was true, but I was too hurt to concede the point.

  “So you’re saying you haven’t bought a stupid number of shoes for other women before?” I insisted. “And Crystal didn’t make dresses for someone else here? Don’t lie to me! You said she gave you other women as gifts before. You said it!”

  When he took a deep breath in and let it out in a long, slow exhale, it felt as though he was trying to get a grip on himself. And indeed, his voice was calmer when he replied.

  “I also told you it hasn’t happened in a long time. Your grandparents weren’t even born the last time Lilah gave me such a gift. And back then…”

  He looked away for a moment, and it seemed as though he wouldn’t finish. But he finally looked at me, met my eyes again, and I shivered just as much from that look, devoid of any emotion, as I did from his next words.

  “Back then I didn’t bother buying them presents. I fed from them until I either took too much and killed them or tired of them and sent them away.”

  It had happened again. I had forgotten—again—that he wasn’t human. How easy it was to forget until he said something to remind me of what he was…

  “But you don’t… you don’t do that anymore.” My voice dropped down to a whisper. “Do you?”

  He shook his head in answer. I really wished he’d have answered in words. He could have lied, of course, but it would still have made me feel better. Trying to get off the topic of him killing people, I swallowed hard and asked, “So who… the shoes and the dresses? Who were they for?”

  His eyes remained empty, but his voice did waver a little when he said, “I haven’t always been a bachelor.”

  Did I want to ask more questions—all the questions you’re probably asking yourself right now? Of course. But I didn’t get the chance to do so. He left the room. Again. I was beginning to hate that habit of his. How are you supposed to have a conversation with someone when they just go away whenever they don’t like what’s being said?

  I didn’t see him again that evening. I barely saw him the next day, either, as he only came to me to tell me Crystal was back for the first fitting. After that, he disappeared for the rest of the day. I looked for him. I’m not sure what I’d have said if I’d found him. I just felt incredibly lonely, eating alone, working alone… I guess I’d grown used to his presence.

  I had another fitting on New Year’s Eve. Crystal had told me to expect her bright and early so I went down to wait for her and let her in. In the street behind her, the Christmas snow had turned to a gray mush.

  That fitting didn’t last more than twenty minutes. The dress was just about perfect—but ‘just about’ wasn’t enough for Crystal. She left with the promise that she’d have the dress ready for me that evening, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it the next day, the day of the gala.

  I was in my room when the dress was delivered. It wasn’t Crystal who brought me the big white box closed with a satin ribbon, but Morgan himself. After not seeing him for almost two days, I stood on the threshold to my suite, a little startled to find him there, so much so, in fact, that I didn’t take the box right away, and he said, “Where do you want me to put it?”

  I motioned for him to set it on the low table in the sitting room. Part of me wanted to ask where he’d been hiding—and why. Another little voice suggested that I apologize for upsetting him with my questions. I did neither. Instead, I asked him to wait and went into the bedroom.

  When the presents I had ordered online arrived after the storm, I returned those I’d bought for my parents, but I kept the lighter. The one I’d bought myself and the one Morgan had gone out to buy were side by side on the desk. I didn’t know what made me pick up the smaller box—the one I’d bought. The other one was nicer, but this one was the one I’d picked, with a small orchid engraved on the side.

  “This is for you,” I said, holding it out to him and suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

  He looked at the box, and frowned lightly as he opened it. The frown smoothed out when he ran a finger against the orchid.

  “You’ve had this for days,” he said. “Was it for me all along?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why only now?”

  That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? And I had no clue what the answer was.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it because of the dress?” he insisted. “You don’t have to, you know. This isn’t a gift exchange or—”

  “It’s just a gift, all right? I thought you’d like it.”

  He closed the box again, and for a second I thought he’d give it back to me. He didn’t, though, and said almost formally, “I do like it. Thank you.”

  ‘You’re welcome’ would have been the customary answer; instead, I found myself glaring at him.

  “You can be so… so…”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and suggested without as much as a smile, “Annoying?”

  “Yes! And frustrating! And I should be scared of you, and I’m not, and sometimes you’re a pain and I want to kick you, and sometimes I just want to kiss you and… and…”

  And I wanted to do that now. Actually, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t. There had to be reasons, many of them, but at that moment they were all beyond my grasp.

  I took a half step closer to Morgan.

  And he, of course, took a step back.

  “Angelina,” he murmured. “Don’t.”

  With just one thought in mind, with my eyes locked to his lovely, kissable mouth, I stepped closer again.

  “Don’t what?” I said, licking my lips.

  His voice dropped even lower, but he didn’t retreat again.

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “What is?”

  He cupped my cheek in one hand and leaned down, whispering “This,” against my mouth before he kissed me.

  I closed my eyes, clasped his wrist, raised myself on my toes to deepen the kiss. It was just as sweet, just as hot as every kiss we’d shared in our minds. The difference was, this time it was real. This time his tongue was really stroking mine. My heart was really accelerating. That quiet, sexy sound was really rising from his throat.

  Too soon he pulled back and ended the kiss. His hand remained on my cheek, though, and I still clung to his wrist. Batting my eyes open, I asked in a hoarse whisper, “Why is it a bad idea?”
r />   I wish I could say he had some trouble finding a reason. Alas, he answered all too quickly.

  “Because soon you’ll leave.”

  Leave… Leaving was supposed to be a good thing, wasn’t it? It was what I wanted, what I’d been hoping for. So why did it feel like such a terrible idea right then?

  “You don’t know that,” I said. “You don’t know it’ll be soon. Something is happening between us. You know it is.”

  “What I know, what you don’t seem to understand, is that I’m not a good man. And I wouldn’t be any good for you.”

  “No. You like to pretend you’re not a good man. You’re even very good at pretending you’re bad. I just don’t understand why.”

  “What if I am a bad man who’s very good at pretending he’s nice?”

  “If that was the case, you’d be kissing me again, and throwing me on my bed, and having your wicked way with me with no apologies. And you know what? I don’t think I’d complain.”

  I kissed him again, throwing both arms around his neck, drawing him tight against me. There was no pretending anymore and no restraint as we shared our most heated kiss yet. What was I thinking? I couldn’t say. Mostly, I was feeling. Feeling every ounce of attraction that had accumulated inside me since I’d met him. Every last bit of frustration when he’d been less than forthcoming. Every moment of surprise and gratefulness when he’d shown himself unexpectedly sweet or thoughtful.

  Again, he ended the kiss much too soon, pulling out of my arms and stepping beyond my reach. His voice was ragged, even breathless when he said, “Good night, Angelina.”

  He left without giving me another look. Left me there, with my heart beating too fast, and my mind turning wildly, and my panties wet after no more than a couple of kisses. How could he kiss me like that and then just walk away? He’d wanted me, too. He could pretend otherwise, and yes, he could even walk away, but his body, at least, didn’t lie. His cock had been rock hard against me, tantalizingly close, and nowhere near close enough. What was going on in that stubborn, pig-headed mind that he’d refuse to acknowledge our mutual attraction? For hours, I tried to figure it out, but I simply didn’t know enough about him to make even an educated guess.

  Good night, he’d said. My night was anything but good. In a fit of vindictiveness, I only hoped his night was even worse.

  *

  After all the work that went into preparing the gala, the evening seemed to pass in a flash. I spent the entire time making sure everything was going smoothly, checking on the food, the silent auction, the EmCee. I wouldn’t be bragging, only reporting the truth, if I said everything went without a glitch and we raised more money than I’d imagined—quite enough for the shelter to be rebuilt and to have enough funds to function for a long while. It was nice that something good was coming out of the situation I’d been thrown into.

  Something besides me growing closer to Morgan, I mean. But was that even a good thing? Was it a good idea for me to grow closer to—

  Oh, who am I kidding? It wasn’t about ‘being close’ to him anymore. I was falling in love. How crazy was I to fall in love with a vampire? Or, forget the vampire thing. Was it good to fall in love with a man who pretended so hard not to have any interest in me when every other thing he did pointed to the opposite? I could have been wrong, of course. I could have read more in his behavior than was really there. I could have imagined all of it because I wanted the Morgan from our fantasies to be real.

  But what if I wasn’t wrong?

  With my mind in shambles, I was glad to keep busy the entire evening and only saw Morgan a few times, never closer than a few feet away. He’d stayed away from me the entire day, and that was fine by me. I didn’t want to talk to him right now. I couldn’t, not when I was still trying to understand the kisses.

  There was one slight problem with my ‘keep busy’ plan: the gala couldn’t last forever. After the auction ended, the band continued to play, but the party started to wind down. By two-thirty or so in the morning, the guests were gone, the band was just about finished packing, and the servers had done a first quick clean-up. I accompanied everyone to the door, thanking them for a great job and promising I’d use their services again if I ever found myself planning another party. Seeing how I was determined not to work for Miss Delilah anymore when she finally freed me, I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to organize galas like this one again, but it was always good to keep business contacts.

  I was about to go to bed when I was surprised to find someone in front of my favorite painting. I’d thought all the guests had gone, but there seemed to be at least one straggler. I approached from behind, and for just a second I thought it was a man—a rather short, svelte man with hair long enough to cover the back of his neck with soft-looking auburn curls—but the peek of high heels under the tuxedo pants clued me in. Coming closer, I could see the delicate features of a woman, her full lips pink and shiny, her brown eyes darkened by mascara, eyeliner, and eye shadow.

  The contrast between her tailored tuxedo, cut in such a way that her modest chest and narrow hips were accentuated, and her expertly applied make-up was a little jarring. At the same time, she looked perfectly at ease, holding an almost empty flute of champagne in a nonchalant hand.

  She finished the champagne without taking her eyes off the painting she was detailing—the same painting of Central Park I liked so much—and, still without looking toward me, she held out the glass in my direction. When I didn’t take it, she threw me an impatient look.

  “Well, Angelina?” she said. “I’m not going to wait on you all night.”

  I don’t know what shocked me the most: that she knew my name or that she was treating me like I was staff.

  I’d ended up choosing a black dress, and granted it was the color of the uniform the serving staff had been wearing, but the gown did not look in any way, shape, or form like a uniform. I almost wanted to scoff at her or even turn my back and walk away. Something stopped me, however. The tone of her voice wasn’t the same as Miss Delilah’s when she’d compelled me, but it was very close: the expectation that she’d be obeyed came through loud and clear.

  The realization of what she might be silenced my annoyance, and I took the empty glass from her. I was about to set it down on the closest piece of furniture, a tall, carved wooden stand topped by a porcelain vase, when she tisked reprovingly.

  “Do you have any idea how old that stand is?” she asked. “And you want to treat it like a coffee table. Children have no manners these days.”

  My annoyance roared back, and my cheeks burned with outrage as my hand closed over the glass.

  “I am no child,” I started, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes were back on the painting, and she talked over me as she gestured at it.

  “No manners at all. Putting that thing in the same room as my Monet. Honestly, I don’t know what goes through Morgan’s head anymore. Unless…”

  She turned a narrow-eyed look toward me.

  “Did he buy that… painting for you? Is that it?” She shook her head. “He always did the silliest things when women asked him to. I rather hoped it’d be different with you.”

  Remember all the times I complained about Morgan giving the most unhelpful explanations? Now I knew where he’d learned that amazing skill. And I knew, without the shadow of a doubt, who this woman had to be: his maker.

  “You’re Mother,” I said, a little breathless, and it wasn’t a question.

  “My name is Irene,” she replied in that same stern, forbidding voice. “Only my children may call me Mother, and you are not my child.”

  After a pointed pause, she added, “Yet.”

  I gulped, then took a step back.

  And you’d have done the same.

  Standing in front of the person who was responsible for my current situation? Knowing she was a vampire? Hearing her allude, ever so casually, to the possibility of making me a vampire, too?

  Oh yeah. That was a gulp moment if I ever lived thr
ough one.

  “You still haven’t answered,” she chided. “Did Morgan buy that painting for you?”

  I gulped again, and still my mouth and throat felt almost too dry for words.

  “No,” I croaked. “It was already up the first time I came here.”

  She made a little “Hmm” sound, like she wasn’t convinced, then turned again to the painting, her arms crossed in a decidedly forbidding posture.

  “After all this time, you’d think he’d have learned to distinguish between true art and… this.”

  The words could hardly have been more hurtful if I’d created the painting myself. I loved that painting. It meant a lot to me. It had given me peace and, in my mind at least, freedom. Hearing her disparage it like this… She wasn’t just criticizing Morgan’s taste. She was criticizing mine, too.

  “Wasn’t Monet derided by art critics when he first showed his paintings?” I said, my nervousness forgotten for a second. “Maybe Morgan can recognize true art before others label it as such.”

  When she faced me again, her grin was wide enough to show her fangs. Definitely another gulp moment.

  “So, you do have a spark. I was beginning to wonder. Although, with the shoes you have to fill, you’re going to need more than a spark.”

  Call me stupid, but when she mentioned shoes, my mind flashed back to the shoe-shopping spree Morgan had given me. And from there, I jumped to the gown shopping I’d done right in the mansion. And to that heated conversation we’d had. Add to that the remark from Miss Delilah that had troubled me since she’d uttered it: she’d called me perfect, like she was judging me against some unknown-to-me benchmark.

  It hadn’t dawned on me until that moment, but in retrospect it should have. I wasn’t there because of a whim from Miss Delilah or ‘Mother.’ I wasn’t just a gift chosen randomly among millions of other women. I was there, very specifically, as someone’s replacement. And I felt very dumb for not understanding sooner.

  “Whose shoes are they?” I asked her, trying to sound as unconcerned as I could manage when, in fact, I was dying to hear her answer.