Ward of the Vampire: Complete Serial

by Kallysten

  Until that moment, I’d been, for the most part, okay with the idea of letting Morgan take his time. It wasn’t like I had had anything to do other than wait, after all. I had thought there was something between us and that it wasn’t only coming from me and that eventually he’d realize as much, or admit it to himself. And with any luck ‘eventually’ would have been before I left the mansion.

  Now that I could leave, however, things had taken on a whole new urgency. Morgan didn’t know I could go, but I imagined that, sooner rather than later, he’d ask either Irene or Miss Delilah to release me again, only to be told I was already free to go. Would he kick me out, then? Would he be upset that I hadn’t left as soon as I could? I didn’t particularly want to find out.

  So, I couldn’t wait anymore. I had to do something. I had to break past Morgan’s defenses. I had the idea that if I could only get him to admit that, yes, I did know what I was feeling, I wasn’t making it up under the stress of being trapped in the mansion with him, then it’d be a first step toward a lot more. And even if it wasn’t, I needed him to believe me. I could accept him not loving me—even if I was sure he felt at least something for me—but his denial of my feelings, that I could not and would not accept.

  I thought up a battle plan.

  Or, to be more precise, I remembered a battle plan.

  I looked back on our first fantasy ‘date’: a nice dinner, dessert in the sun room, making out, then going back to his bedroom… A risky proposition, I was sure, and one that was likely to end with another argument or with Morgan fleeing yet again. But I had to try. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try.

  Maybe it was a bit fast for a real first date, but we did have a history, even if it was mostly imaginary. And anyway, I couldn’t be sure how things would go. I could just plan and hope.

  I’d been hoping a lot in the past few weeks. It hadn’t helped so far. Maybe tonight would be different.

  I still didn’t want to eat in the dining room, but I had an idea about that. I worked on it first. It took a little while, but I got everything just the way I wanted it, then came back to the kitchen. I thought I remembered how Stephen had prepared the frittata, so I started gathering ingredients. No salmon this time, but I found some bacon and thought it would work.

  I was in the middle of it all when Stephen walked in, carrying grocery bags and still wearing a coat and hat. He arched an eyebrow at the counter, which was littered with egg shells, splatters of milk, and bits of the fresh herbs I’d chopped and thrown in. His disapproval all but burst out of him, even if he didn’t say a word.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up after myself,” I said, a little annoyed at how easily he could make me feel like I was five and had been caught making a mess.

  He didn’t acknowledge my words and started to put away what he’d bought.

  “I would have made dinner for you, Miss Angelina. Didn’t you see my note?”

  “I did. And as I told you before, I don’t mind cooking for myself.”

  I tried to think as I looked at the bowl and the mixture I was whipping. What else should I put in? Was I forgetting anything?

  I was: salt and pepper. I realized it when Stephen, without a word, set the two grinders in front of me on his way to the door.

  “Thanks,” I said as I added a bit of both to the bowl. “And Stephen?”

  He glanced back at me, and I felt heat creeping up my cheeks. I had no reason to be embarrassed. It wasn’t like he’d guess everything I had in mind just from one innocent question. And still, there I was, scarlet and not quite able to meet his eyes.

  “How do you warm up Morgan’s food?”

  After a beat, he asked, “You mean, blood?”

  “Yes. That.”

  ‘Completely and utterly mystified’ was a rather interesting look for Stephen. Unusual, but interesting.

  “Why?”

  “I just thought I’d ask him to have dinner with me,” I said, feeling even more uncomfortable. “And forcing him to eat food he has no interest in felt a bit rude, so…”

  He started to shrug out of his coat.

  “Have you already asked him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ask him first.”

  “You think he’ll say no?”

  His smile touched his lips but not his eyes.

  “I hope I’m wrong, but yes, I think he’ll say no.”

  “I won’t let him. I’m tired of letting him hide from me. We’re having dinner together even if that means I plop myself on his lap to eat a sandwich.”

  Now, Stephen’s smile became real.

  “I’d like to see you try that. Let me put my coat away. I’ll be right back.”

  I barely had time to put the frittata in the oven before he came back. His first words were, “What time do you intend to have dinner? We don’t want to warm up the blood too early.”

  He had an excellent point, especially seeing how my food needed to cook, and I still needed to get dressed and talk to Morgan. So, instead of showing me how to prepare Morgan’s dinner, Stephen took it upon himself to prepare dessert for us. When I realized he was making chocolate mousse, I could have just about kissed him. Except, you know, I’d much rather have kissed Morgan. Stephen was…

  I was about to say, Stephen was too old for me. Because, clearly, fifty-ish was too old, but four hundred was not. Welcome to my life.

  “Will you be taking dinner in the dining room, then?” he asked after he’d fluffed the mousse to airy perfection.

  “Nope. I told you, I’m done with that room. I set things up in the sun room.”

  A quick worried glance told me he had something to say about that, but I never found out what it was. Instead, he suggested that I go and get Morgan and he’d finish preparing the meal and take it upstairs. I hadn’t meant to create more work for him, and I told him so, but he waved my concerns away with a dismissive gesture.

  “I thought by now you’d have realized none of it is a burden,” he said. “Honestly, Miss Angelina. My job can get a little… dull. Your presence has made things more interesting.”

  That was quite possibly the nicest thing Stephen had said to me since my arrival. And I felt a tiny, niggling feeling of guilt because I’d soon be leaving and his job would go back to being dull. Should I tell him? Miss Delilah had forbidden me from telling Morgan, but not Stephen. For that matter, I could have told Stephen and asked him to let Morgan know since I couldn’t. Then Morgan would know I was still there because I truly cared about him. Loved him.

  But what if he made me leave before we could work things out between us?

  It was that thought that kept me quiet. I simply thanked Stephen and went to get ready.

  My dress options were becoming rather limited. Morgan had not packed my suitcase with the thought of me going on dates, that much was obvious. And all right, if I’d packed for myself, date-worthy clothes would not have been my priority, either—not back then.

  I was hyperaware, once again, that I could leave the mansion and fix this small problem. If I hopped in a cab, I could be at my apartment and back in half an hour, tops. Unless, of course, I spent a couple hours rifling through my closet and trying to pick something.

  Maybe this was best, after all. I had one proper date dress, and I’d only worn it in a fantasy so that didn’t really count. Besides, I could make it different with the shoes. On that point, at least, I had many options, and I must have tried half my collection before settling on white high heels with silver accents. As an aside, I tried the thigh-high leather boots with the dress. It looked… all right. ‘Badass’ is not a word I’d readily use to describe myself, but in this case it definitely applied. A bit too much for our date, but I didn’t despair of finding an occasion for them sooner or later, as well as the proper outfit to go with them, too.

  I kept my make-up to a minimum, left my hair loose on my shoulders, put on the ruby ring my parents had given me for Christmas, and took a good look at myself in the mirror.


  “He likes you. Don’t let him pretend otherwise.”

  So, maybe I wasn’t the queen of pep talks. But a bit of encouragement was very much needed at that moment, and it wasn’t like anybody else would oblige. For all of Stephen’s assurances about Morgan being worth it, it hadn’t escaped my notice that he had yet to offer any actual advice on how to deal with Morgan’s aloofness. Was it because he thought I didn’t need the advice, because he thought it wasn’t his place to intervene any more than he already had, or because he had no helpful advice to give? Hard to tell.

  With my heart in my throat and my hands clenched at my sides, I walked to Morgan’s room as though marching to battle. I knocked on his door twice, and as I waited, I was taken by the most horrible thought: what if he wasn’t there? I dismissed the idea right away. I’d seen him walk in that morning, and he’d looked exhausted, mentally as well as physically. He had to be there. He had to be.

  He was.

  The door opened, just enough for me to see that his hair was tousled and he was shirtless and wearing pajama pants. The impression of déjà vu was accentuated even more when he said my name in a very grumpy tone of voice.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I said, sticking to the speech I had rehearsed. “I didn’t realize you’d still be asleep, seeing how it’s almost dinner time.”

  “Was there something you needed?” he asked, punctuating the question with a yawn he hid behind his hand.

  “Actually, yes,” I said, trying to be as resolute as I could manage. “Company. I’m tired of taking my meals alone. I’d appreciate it if you had dinner with me.”

  He still looked a little sleepy, but his voice sounded fully awake when he said, “I thought Stephen was keeping you company for meals.”

  Ah. Right. I hadn’t expected that line of objection. So much for my careful planning.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “But he still calls me ‘Miss Angelina,’ and I have a feeling he sees it more as part of his job than something he enjoys doing. I’d rather not impose on him.”

  Which wasn’t entirely true—the part about Stephen seeing me as a chore, I mean. He’d been a lot more pleasant, and the ‘Miss Angelina’ thing was more habit than a desire to keep me at arm’s length. Or at least, that was what I believed.

  “So… what you’re saying is… you don’t want to impose on Stephen by having dinner with him, so you come and wake me up to ask me to keep you company instead. When you know I don’t even eat the same food you do.”

  If not for the light—very light, barely even there—tone of amusement in his words, I would have started to worry right about that time.

  “Well, we did warm up some blood for you.” Look at me, not even tripping on the word, like I talked about warming blood every day. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but unlike Stephen, you actually enjoy my company.”

  His mouth opened. Then it closed again without uttering a sound. I thought I was safe in my assessment that I had won this point. It was nice to have the last word sometimes…

  He moved back, muttering, “Give me a minute.” He did not, however, close the door.

  I suppose it’d have been polite to give him some privacy. I must have misplaced my politeness, however, because rather than pulling away, I actually poked the door with a fingertip, causing it to slide open wider. There wasn’t much light, but I could still see Morgan standing by his dresser. He pulled something from a drawer, then glanced back at me, just long enough to meet my eyes, an eyebrow arched as if to ask, ‘what are you doing?’ When I didn’t retreat, he faced the dresser again and, in one smooth, elegant movement, pushed his pajamas down.

  He was not wearing underwear.

  My throat went dry as my eyes slid along Morgan’s backside.

  It was a very, very pretty backside. Tight and toned, smooth pale skin, and even though I’d never really touched it—never touched him—I knew just how silky it’d feel under my fingers.

  Far too soon, Morgan stepped into a pair of black boxers. He left the pajamas on the floor and retrieved something from a different drawer. This time, he turned fully toward me, and I perused his lovely abs as he slipped on a white shirt and started to do up the buttons, starting from the bottom.

  “Enjoying the show?” he asked, that same eyebrow arching again.

  “Are you enjoying giving it?”

  His answer was only a twisted half-smile before he turned away again, this time to hunt for pants in the closet. He was now behind the door and I couldn’t see him anymore, so I let my eyes wander around the room. I liked the minimalistic decor, although it clashed with the rest of the mansion. Same thing for the clean, simple lines of the wooden furniture: it seemed to be of excellent quality, but it didn’t match anything else, be it the style of the other bedrooms or even the heavily carved desk and shelves in Morgan’s office.

  I’d seen the room before, and while I’d been surprised at how different it was from the rest of the mansion, I hadn’t asked about it. I’d been too distracted at the time by my possible impending death to care much. Now was my chance to satisfy my curiosity.

  “Is that your style?” I asked. “I mean, the style of this room. The rest of the mansion is practically a museum, but this room is different. Modern.”

  The rustling of fabric ceased, and for a second or two the silence was eerie.

  “Not that modern,” Morgan finally said. “The furniture in here is twenty years old.”

  It was an oddly specific number. After talking to Stephen and hearing him mention the things Morgan hadn’t been doing for twenty years, the connection drew itself in my mind. This wasn’t how I’d meant to start the evening. Actually, even as I asked, I realized that this could very well end the evening before it started if Morgan retreated into one of his sour, grouchy moods. But still, I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Was it her style, then, rather than yours?”

  He appeared in front of the door again, his fingers tucking in his shirt into his black slacks. A face carved from marble would have held more expression than Morgan’s right then.

  “Whose style is that supposed to be?” he asked coldly.

  I could practically hear the danger alarms warning me that this was a perfect way to wreck my plans. Could I stop there, though? I’d already said too much and yet not enough. I might as well continue on that path and see if it ended as abruptly as I expected it would.

  “You tell me. But I’m guessing, the woman you used to buy shoes and dresses for. The woman Stephen used to cook for. Before you stopped having guests here or even friends.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair, and rather than combing it, he made it look a little wilder—and a lot sexier. There was something to be said about the just-out-of-bed look and how it could make innocent passersby—namely, me—go a little out of breath and weak in the knees. Honestly, I never had that kind of problem before I met Morgan.

  “You ask too many questions,” he said in a rumbling voice. “Do you know that? Yesterday you seemed to understand that being forced to talk about… about my past was painful, so why are you trying to emulate Irene now?”

  I had a hard time suppressing a wince. Emulating Irene was quite possibly the last thing I wanted to do. And yet… I was pushing him, the same way she had, so I couldn’t deny that he was right.

  “Because I think I figured out why she told me that name,” I said quietly. “Why she wanted me to ask you.”

  At his blank look, I continued.

  “Because you need to talk about it. Maybe you should have talked about it four-hundred years ago but she made you forget instead, so you still haven’t healed from it. And God knows what else is buried inside you, festering and spoiling every bit of happiness you could feel if you only forgave yourself.”

  I meant it, I meant every word, but I hadn’t intended to say it quite so soon or even in such an abrupt manner. And I certainly didn’t expect him to answer like he did.

  “I don’t deserve happiness.”


  He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that it shocked the breath right out of me. I needed a couple seconds to catch on and find an answer.

  “Of course you do.” My voice sounded shrill enough that I winced and tried to control myself before I continued. “Everyone does. Why would you say—”

  “Come in here,” he interrupted me.

  He hadn’t moved from where he was standing by the bed, but he looked at me and held out his hand. I swallowed hard and walked in, taking his hand. His fingers closed gently over mine, and he tugged me after him into the bathroom, where he turned on the lights. I went quickly from startled to confused when he stood in front of the sink, facing the large mirror above it, and made me stand right next to him. He let go of my hand and pointed at the mirror as he said, “What do you see?”

  Frowning, I looked from him to the mirror. What I saw first was my own confusion, but I doubted that was what he wanted to hear. I shifted my focus to his image. For all that I’d just watched him get dressed in front of me, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was handsome—more than handsome—even if he wasn’t smiling.

  “I see you,” I said. “I see the stubborn man who refuses to believe I love him.”

  His jaw tensed briefly. Our eyes met in the mirror. I’d seen many things in those deep, dark eyes, but I’d never seen self-loathing there before.

  “Do you want to know what I see?” he asked very low. “I see a monster. And I’m not talking metaphorically. I am literally seeing something different from what you see.”

  He picked up the bar of soap on a small porcelain dish and raised it to the mirror. As he spoke, he drew lines over his reflection.

  “Larger teeth.”

  Long triangles appeared as white lines over his mouth, like a child’s depiction of a shark’s teeth.

  “Bone ridges on my cheeks and forehead.”

  Zigzags now, and those seemed more abstract, like an odd scar or tattoo.

  “Skin the color and texture of aged parchment. Bone protrusions on my head.”

  They didn’t look exactly like horns, but it was a close call. He pressed his left hand to the glass and drew spikes from the tip of each finger.