Ward of the Vampire: Complete Serial

by Kallysten

  “Maybe you’re not bleeding,” I said, “but your past was just laid open like a story, instead of something that still hurts you after four-hundred years. So yes. I’m asking, and you haven’t answered yet. Are you okay?”

  Did he answer? Of course not. Stubborn man.

  “Who says it still hurts me?” he asked instead.

  I was glad I could roll my eyes without him knowing.

  “Your face said it when I mentioned Melody the other night.”

  He didn’t deny it. I supposed that was progress.

  “It hasn’t been four-hundred years for me,” he whispered.

  The music sounded off for a moment, as though he’d hit the wrong key or lost the rhythm. Soon, he corrected his mistake and continued just as quietly.

  “Irene was wrong. I wasn’t obsessed with Melody. I loved her. More than I’d ever loved anyone as a human. More than I even knew I could love until I met her.”

  I can’t say it was nice to hear him talk about loving another woman, but I certainly wasn’t going to stop him now. I’d hoped he’d tell me about her and what made her an important enough part of his past that Irene would mention her. But I had wanted him to choose to share his past with me, not be forced to do so by his maker. How weird was it that I felt as upset with Irene for forcing his hand as I had been when she’d threatened to kill me?

  “She was just a pretty face at first,” he said. “Just a gift from Lilah like a dozen others. And then I realized she wasn’t scared. I’d bitten her, and she wasn’t scared. They were always scared. They always begged for their lives, or prayed, or called me the devil, but not her. She was curious about what I was. We talked. I didn’t kill her that night. Or the next night. I didn’t intend to kill her at all. For two years, she was at my side.”

  He let out a quiet huff, and from the corner of my eye, I could see him shaking his head.

  “Irene didn’t mention that part. She didn’t like that I ‘kept a pet.’ That’s what she called it. She can be such a hypocrite. She and Lilah both. But she tolerated her, and Melody… She was smart enough to stay out of Irene’s way. And she wasn’t a pet or a prisoner. She was free to leave any time she wanted. I told her repeatedly. But she stayed. She chose to stay. I think… I think she loved me. It was hard to believe she could love a monster like me, but she said she did, and I wanted to believe her.”

  I had to bite my tongue not to point out that I’d said the same thing and he refused to believe me. And also not to say that he was anything but a monster. I’d say it later, I promised myself. For now, I just wanted him to finish his story, and if I interrupted him, I was afraid he never would.

  “One night…”

  His voice grew quieter, to the point that, even sitting next to him, I had to strain my ears to catch his words under the delicate chords he pulled from the piano.

  “I took too much blood from her. I’d always been so careful… I don’t know what happened. It was an accident. I didn’t choose to break the rules. I didn’t turn her because I wanted her to be a vampire. I turned her because I panicked. Because I couldn’t lose her. Because I didn’t want her to die at my hands. I’d never minded killing people before her. But she was different.”

  I realized two things at that moment, and each only raised more questions I had no answer for. Morgan’s words didn’t contradict Irene’s version of events, but they did change it drastically. And Irene must have known that her version was incomplete and that Morgan would set the record straight. So… if she wanted me to have the full story, why not give it to me herself? She’d already forced Morgan’s hand, so a bit more hardly mattered… unless she wanted him to talk about it? Had he ever talked about it with anyone? Surely, he must have… Hadn’t he? For that matter, why would he want me to have the complete story and not just Irene’s version? He kept denying my feelings for him, so why should he care what I believed about his relationship with a long-dead woman?

  As my mind churned over all this, Morgan continued to play, but his tempo slowed down until it was less music than a practice exercise, like a novice pianist pecking at the keys one by one. After the intricate piece he’d played with Irene, or even the way he’d been playing just moments ago, it was almost painful to hear.

  “I’m sorry you had to kill her in the end,” I offered, feeling like they were entirely inadequate words.

  The music finally stopped.

  “It was the hardest thing I’d ever done,” he said. “Irene’s right. I understood why it had to be done. She was out of control. Even compulsion barely slowed her down. She fed where she could be seen, left bodies in plain sight, allowed herself to be tracked. She just didn’t care. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t have enough control to care. If it had been just me, I’d have run with her. We’d have hidden or stayed on the move until she got a grip on herself. But it was about Lilah and Irene, too. I couldn’t allow them to be in danger. They’d have been safe from humans, but other vampires would have punished them in our place. That’s just the way it works.”

  The resignation in his voice tore at my heart. How long had it lasted? How long had he tried to control Melody, knowing that if he didn’t he’d have to kill her—kill the woman he loved? Had he explained to her? Had he pleaded with her, begged her? Had she tried, maybe to control herself, only to fail and disappoint him again? A dozen scenarios were running through my mind. I didn’t ask, and I knew I wouldn’t. It was already painful enough, for him to recount and for me to hear. I didn’t need to make it worse by making him relive every detail.

  “Irene didn’t have to compel me to do it. But she did compel me afterward. She commanded me to forget about Melody. To forget everything about her. Meeting her, loving her. Killing her. She thought she was being kind.”

  The way he said that last word made it clear that he saw it as anything but. I had a feeling he disagreed with Irene and Lilah about a lot more than just what was or was not an appropriate birthday gift. I wanted to give him some comfort, but saying that I was sorry yet again hardly seemed like it would help. At a loss for words, I laid my hand on his shoulder. In truth, I expected him to shrug off the touch. Instead, he rested his hand on top of mine. In that moment of silence when we weren’t even looking at each other, I felt as close to him as I had in our most intimate instants.

  After a few seconds, he dropped his hand, and I did the same. Very quietly so as not to break the moment, I asked, “She made you forget… but you remember.”

  His fingers returned to the piano. The next thing he played sounded like a lullaby.

  “I do now,” he said. “For centuries, I didn’t. But as I grew older, I started having flashes of memory. The older we get, the harder it is for compulsion to stick. We still follow our maker’s commands, but it’s more courtesy and habit than compulsion. And eventually…” His throat clicked audibly. “The compulsion fell apart completely. I remembered it all.”

  “Is that… Is that when you stopped killing people?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, I wondered if he’d answer at all. So far, he’d been sharing what he wanted rather than reacting to my questions, and I doubt I need to remind you how bad he is at answering my questions. But he did answer, and it felt even more special for all of his past reticence.

  “No.” His voice was rough, as if his throat had been scrubbed with sandpaper. “I stopped much earlier than that. Gradually. It happens to a lot of vampires. I don’t know if it’s about growing a conscience or just learning to respect what we don’t have anymore, but many of us get there sooner or later. Not all of us, but many.”

  “Respect what you don’t have anymore?” I repeated, a little confused. “What is that?”

  I half turned toward him, and could see the shimmer of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

  “A heartbeat,” he said. “Life. A reason to enjoy every day like it’s the last. When you have eternity in front of you, a day or even a year doesn’t mean much.”

  I don’t know what
did it, whether it was his words or the sadness in his voice. Maybe it was all of it, everything he’d said, everything Irene had said. Or maybe I was only continuing the trend that had started when I had first met him: acting on instinct, without really letting myself think things through.

  Regardless of the why, I shifted on the bench to face him fully, then raised a hand to his face and turned his head toward me. My fingers brushed the marks on his cheek. They felt almost healed. I didn’t see a trace of surprise in his eyes when they met mine; the darkness swallowed every emotion except pain.

  “Today could be my last day,” I whispered.

  He shook his head, although not hard enough to dislodge my hand.

  “No,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you. No one will hurt you.”

  Such fervor in those words… It was a promise, plain and simple. ‘You know how I feel about my promises,’ he’d told Irene. I was safe with him. I felt safe. I felt good.

  Yes, I often argued with him, and got mad at him, and I still couldn’t explain what it was about him that made me feel at the same time like a blushing schoolgirl and a woman who’d been celibate far too long, what it was that made me want to wrap my arms and entire body around him and never let go. But maybe it was as simple as that: he made me feel safe. Love is a strange thing. Trying to reason with it is a fool’s errand.

  I could only think of one way to acknowledge his promise. Well, two, but I didn’t care to profess my love again only to have him deny it. So I did the next best thing. I leaned closer to him and, at the same time, slipped my fingers to the back of his head and drew him down. To tell the truth, I expected him to jerk away from me and refuse the kiss, but I was wrong. He let me pull him to me, let my mouth settle on his, parted his lips for me, even kissed me back when I stroked his tongue as gently as I knew how.

  It was the sweetest kiss we’d shared, real or imagined, and it held all the pain, bitterness, and sorrow of what had happened to him and Melody. It was my small way of telling him I understood his grief and would do anything to help soothe it, if he only let me. I was glad he could at least accept this small comfort from me.

  I don’t know how long it lasted. It felt like forever, and it still wasn’t enough. When I ended the kiss, I couldn’t bear to let go of him, so I pressed my forehead to his. He let me, but he kept his eyes closed, and I had this strange feeling that he was hiding from me. But what was left to hide? I knew everything now.

  I needed to say something, anything to bring him back to me, make him open his eyes, keep him anchored to the here and now. What I said was, “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  It wasn’t a terribly good idea.

  He was startled enough that he jerked back, pulling out of my hand.

  “What?”

  I had no reason to feel embarrassed, or at least that was what I told myself.

  “Dinner. You and me. We’ve had dinner in the fantasy world and dinner with my parents at Christmas but never just us in the real world.”

  I said it with a smile, but I already knew what he would answer. It was inscribed on his face, in his eyes as he pulled away further on the bench, then stood. He’d allowed me to be close to him for a moment, but that moment was over. I’d pushed too far.

  “I’m sorry, Angelina,” he said, and to his credit he did sound sorry. “I don’t think so.”

  I wasn’t surprised when he started toward the door. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. And not even angry anymore that he was running away from me yet again. He could claim all he wanted that I didn’t know him, but at this point, I did.

  “I still do, you know,” I said as he reached the door.

  He paused and looked back at me, silently asking what I meant.

  “I learned your dark secret, and I still feel the same way about you, whether you believe me or not. Nothing changed.”

  He left without another word. I felt sad, and a little bit like an idiot for breaking things after he’d confided in me. But deep down, I felt hopeful, too. I understood him better now. I understood why he was so scared of loving someone, of letting them love him. After the way things had turned out with Melody, it was normal for him to be afraid it’d happen again. And while that had taken place a long time ago, he had only remembered recently, so the pain of it was still fresh. Yes, I understood everything.

  Or at least, I thought I did. As it turned out, I was very wrong.

  *

  Dinner, that evening, was a painful affair.

  It was as delicious as ever, thanks to Stephen’s homemade pizza and crème brûlée for dessert—a curious combination, I’ll grant you that, but delicious nonetheless. The painful part came from Stephen’s frequent questioning looks in my direction, and for the first time I regretted not having my meal by myself.

  He was curious, that much was clear, and I had no trouble figuring out that he wanted to know about what had happened with Irene and Morgan. As we ate the pizza, however—with forks and knives because heaven forbid someone would eat with their fingers in Stephen’s sanctuary, I mean, kitchen—he exercised his usual restraint and did not ask the questions burning his lips. As for me, I wasn’t exactly in a sharing mood. Even if I had wanted to, it wasn’t my place to talk about Morgan’s past.

  I suppose he decided that the crème brûlée would soften me up, because when I broke the caramel crust with my spoon, he finally asked, “May I ask what happened in the music room?”

  If I just said ‘no’ the way I was inclined to do, it’d be poor repayment for Stephen’s kindness when I’d needed to go to Irene and he had tried his best to comfort me. At the same time, what could I say that wouldn’t betray Morgan’s confidence?

  “They played the piano for me,” I said, and while it was true, it wasn’t, of course, what Stephen wanted to hear about.

  “Mr. Ward plays very well, doesn’t he?” he answered, playing along. “So, it sounds like Miss Irene was friendly enough.”

  “She didn’t try to hurt me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He nodded once and took a spoonful of his dessert, but he wasn’t done.

  “Did she and Mr. Ward have… an altercation?”

  I honestly wasn’t sure how to reply. They’d come close to an argument, but was that enough to call it an altercation? Semantics, I’m sure. It all boiled down to the fact that he wanted to know what had transpired, and I couldn’t tell him without revealing more than I felt entitled to.

  “Why are you so interested?” I asked instead.

  Stephen’s voice was as polite and respectful as ever, but his expression intimated that I was either stupid or obtuse for even asking the question.

  “Because he’s my friend and I care about him.”

  “Your friend or your employer?”

  “Can’t he be both?”

  “Seeing how you’ve been so insistent on calling me Miss Angelina, I thought you’d be more strict in separating the two.”

  “I’ve known him for more than thirty years, so you’ll excuse me for being more familiar with him than I am with you.”

  That wasn’t really true, though, was it? He called him ‘Mister Ward,’ even after thirty years. But that wasn’t what I meant.

  “It’s more than familiarity,” I said. “You’re just like him. As long as he was keeping me at arm’s length, so did you. And since I mentioned we had some kind of… connection, you’ve been a lot nicer.”

  Stephen didn’t reply, and for a while the only sound in the kitchen was the scrapping of our spoons against the porcelain ramekins. Had I offended him? That’d be just my luck to antagonize him when he was becoming, more or less, an ally. I cleared my throat as I took the empty dish and the spoon to the dishwasher, and asked, on as innocuous a tone as I could manage, “What did you study?”

  Stephen looked at me distractedly.

  “Hmm?”

  “You told me you went to college, but here you are, a butler for thirty years. What did you study?”

&nb
sp; A half smile lifted one corner of his lips.

  “Medicine, like Ruby. I never finished, though. I was about to start my first rotation when I entered Mr. Ward’s employ.”

  It was a pretty big jump from future doctor to butler, and I couldn’t help but ask, “Why?”

  Stephen shrugged as he turned to the coffee machine and brewed himself an espresso.

  “Because he asked. He’d saved the woman I loved, and when he asked, there was no way I could have said no. Also there was the fact that my grandmother would only retire if she was sure he was in good hands, and it was more than time for her to hang up her apron.”

  So… he’d saved his wife-to-be’s dream, but he’d had to let go of his own in the process.

  “Did you ever regret it?”

  I knew I was pushing it now. He’d be well in his right to call me nosy and insensitive and refuse to answer, especially after I’d evaded his questions moments ago. But he did answer, with a quiet and strong, “Not a day in my life.”

  Those words stayed with me all throughout a quiet and lonely evening. He’d told me Morgan was worth sticking with, but his actions spoke louder than the stories he’d shared. As far as I could tell, just about anyone could have done Stephen’s job. It certainly didn’t require a college degree, and I could imagine that after a while cleaning a museum-like mansion and cooking for oneself while warming up mugs of blood had to grow rather boring. But Stephen had stuck with the job. He’d stuck with Morgan. He’d remained in a position he was overqualified for because he cared about Morgan, and, whether he admitted it or not, worried about him.

  A human worrying about his vampire employer, who undoubtedly needed no help taking care of himself. How very strange.

  The next morning was a repeat of the previous one, except with fresh-baked croissants to go along with coffee. I was beginning to suspect that Stephen had taken my comment about not fitting in my jeans anymore as a challenge. Or maybe he was enjoying showing off his culinary talents now that he had a captive audience… He certainly seemed to have fun telling me about his secret to making perfectly flaky croissants. We were actually laughing about it when the kitchen door opened and Morgan stepped in.