I stepped back, the breath whooshing out of me. The room we’d locked ourselves . . . I shivered. I knew it for what it was. A spelling room. This was where Milly would have gone to make spells to try new things . . . there was a pentagram burned into the white stone floor, shelving filled the walls with books and bottles.
“Yes, this is where she spoke with him.”
I swallowed hard, thinking of Milly calling on Orion. “She was trapped, I know that now.” Faris sucked in a breath and I let out a little laugh. “You’re surprised I would say that?”
“I know how much you hated her for betraying you. And do not forget, I have been on the receiving end of your anger too.” He slumped into a chair and pointed to another beside him.
I took the chair as the chattering of the demons outside the door hummed through. “Yes, I hated her. But I loved her too. She was my best friend . . . my only friend for a lot of years. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I understand her better now than I ever did.”
His blue eyes met mine and there was a softness I’d never seen. I stared back. “You didn’t care for her.”
He shook his head, but his gaze didn’t waver. “No, I didn’t. She wasn’t the one who intrigued me.”
I raised my eyebrows and looked away, unwilling to go there. “I wish I’d had more time with her, I wish . . . so many things.”
His chair creaked and he stretched out his legs, just into the edge of my vision. “Well, is there anything you’d like to say to me? Because we’re stuck in here ‘til dawn, and then you will get back on your dragon and go back to your sanctuary, and you will stay there.”
“That was the plan all along, vampire.”
He grunted. “Time to let it all hang out then, isn’t it?”
I stretched out beside him. “And what would you like to talk about, exactly?”
“Where do we stand, you and I?”
Shit, that was not what I expected. And now I was stuck in a tiny room with him, and I would be forced to have a heart-to-heart with a vampire who, at turns, had tried to kill me and fuck me, depending on his mood and designs of the day.
This was about to get interesting. To say the least.
Chapter 8
I spread my hands. “I’m here, what the hell do you want to discuss, exactly?”
“Where will you go, after it’s done? After Orion is defeated and the world is safe? You can’t go back to your life in Bismarck.”
He said it with such surety, I wondered how he knew. “I don’t know. I have to stop Orion first, I have to have a baby and make sure she’s safe, I have a whole damn book of prophecy to read and memorize so I can do that first thing.” I shrugged, and then rubbed a hand over my bare arm. “Day by day, step by step. I can’t do more than that.”
“Surprisingly wise, for a Tracker, that is,” Faris said.
I twisted in my seat to glare at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiled at me, and I thought he was actually giving me a true smile, maybe for the first time in the months I’d known him. His mouth relaxed and there was no effort to charm me.
“You’re growing up, Rylee. When I first met you, impetuous wouldn’t come close to how you were. You leapt as you saw fit, without looking, without thinking. And it was sheer luck most times that you didn’t get killed. Your instincts and heart led you true, but the game that’s afoot now, it needs more than heart and instinct. It needs a hero who thinks, who sees what’s coming and makes changes to her own actions so the best possible outcome can happen.” He rubbed the stump of his arm. “I should know, I didn’t think when I went into the castle, it’s been so long since anyone has truly presented me with danger that I never even paused to consider what could happen.”
“But you didn’t know what was going to be there, none of us did,” I pointed out.
He snorted. “I knew it would be a situation, the castle was no longer a place of safe passage, yet I walked in as if I owned it. And I paid the price.”
We were quiet for a minute. Peta laid her head on my lap and I put a hand on her, once more grateful for her presence. I looked at Faris massaging what was left of his arm. “Does it hurt?”
He stopped rubbing the stump. “No. Not like you mean.”
“Then how?”
“It hurt my ego more than anything,” he said ruefully. “Maybe I needed to be humbled.”
I burst out laughing. “Maybe?”
He gave me a smile, a twist of his lips. “I’ve lived a long time. It’s hard to be humble when you’ve defied the odds.”
I tipped my head to one side. “What odds?”
He blew out a breath. “Well, it’s not like I don’t have the time to tell you. Would you like to hear the story of how I came to be a vampire? And why I told you when we first met, that I wasn’t what you thought?”
I’d thought he was a vampire, which he was. “You aren’t a bloodsucker?”
“That’s not all I am.” He stood, and strode to a trunk set against the wall. Flicking it open, he pulled a blanket out and tossed it to me. “You have goose bumps on your arms.”
I caught the blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I wasn’t really cold, but a good ghost story always needed a blanket around the person who was being told. And I had a feeling this was going to be a whopper of a ghost story.
Faris stood in the middle of the room, his one hand on his hip as his eyes grew distant, fading to a time long before I was born.
The year 1710 was the year I was born, near Salem, Massachusetts, but it was only twelve years into my life that I began to understand things were not always as they seemed.
I’d bolted into our house, after riding my pony all day through the fields outside the city, tracking mud and horse dung along with me. Our cook, Mrs. Watson, took a swat at me that I managed to avoid with ease.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Watson. Your beauty stole my senses, rendering me a fool, which is why I forgot to remove the dung from my boots.” At twelve I was already shockingly handsome and knew a smile and charming word went a long way to getting me out of trouble with the women.
“Ah, get yourself gone, boy.” She put a sweet tart into my hand as I gave her a courtly bow. “Go on, go see your mama. She’s not well.”
Kicking off my boots, I ran in my stocking feet through the house, up the spiraled stairway and into my mother’s room. She lay on the bed, her fine blond hair spread out on the pale blue pillowcases stacked up behind her.
“Faris, my love, come sit with me.” Her voice was so soft, and I forgot I was a young man, crawling into bed with her like the child I truly still was. I laid my head on her shoulder and she stroked my hair. “Do you think you will love your brother or sister, when they come?”
“Of course, because he will be my brother.”
She laughed softly. “So sure you are that it is a boy? What if it is a little sister?”
“Then I will protect her, like I protect you.” My voice was fierce and yet, I clung to her. The juxtaposition was not lost on me now, but looking back, I loved my mother with a strength that knew no bounds. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever known. Her eyes, blue like mine, filled with love and belief when she looked at me. I knew I could never let her down.
She was my world, and anything she did I would defend to my grave.
I fell asleep against her, my sweet tart forgotten.
A hand shaking my shoulder woke me hours later. “Come, boy, it’s time to eat.”
My father stirred me, and I slid from the bed and my mother’s arms to follow him to the dining room. We ate in near silence and yet, I tried to be the man I wanted to be. My father was tall and lean, his dark brown hair swept back into a ponytail. All the women thought he was dashing, that he was the rogue of the town, with my mother finally taming him. All I saw was the hero I wanted to be as I grew. My mother was the fine princess, my father the dashing knight. They could do no wrong, and they loved me.
But of course, that
was not the real world, but I faced it a few days later.
The screaming is what woke me from a dead sleep. I shot out of my bed, running before I knew what had happened, only that my mother was in pain. I burst into her room to see the physician hovering over her shoulder, shaking his head as she writhed in an agony I couldn’t understand. Sweat slicked her normally golden hair into a dull tarnished copper. My father stood beside her, gripping her fingers tightly. “Beloved, we can only save one of you.”
“The baby,” she whispered, her eyes flicking open, and seeing me. I can only imagine the look on my face, for she started to cry. “Faris, love, come hold me a minute.”
“There is no time,” the physician said, opening his bag and pulling out a wicked looking blade. I ran to him, punched him in the jaw, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
“Faris, no!” My father grabbed me, yanking me back.
“Thomas, please, let me say goodbye to him.” Her blue eyes begged my father, begged him to have one last moment with me.
“There is no time, beloved,” he said, his voice hitching with tears, and then I was shoved outside of the room and my mother was screaming, and I was screaming as I kicked and punched at the door. Blood dripped from my knuckles, but I felt nothing. I knew only the panic of a child being forced to grow up in a matter of seconds. I wanted to believe my mother would survive, but she’d told them to save the baby.
Would my father listen to her? Would he do as she asked or defy her so we had her longer? Selfish, I didn’t care. I wanted my mother to live and to hold me again.
I was on my knees, head against the door when the screaming stopped, fading into nothing. The silence stung my ears and I held my breath, hope surging through me, not realizing yet what the silence really meant. I thought maybe they’d saved her, that the pain had stopped because she was okay, and they’d saved both my mother and the baby.
A warmth spread through my knees and I looked down to see blood seeping out under the door, staining my breeches. I scrambled to my feet, the sound of footsteps jerking my head up. They were dull, heavy steps, like an impending doom walking my way. I wanted to run away, run to the stables and leap on my horse, and not look back. I wanted to pinch myself and wake, realizing it had been nothing but a bad dream.
Yet I stood there, forced myself to stand like the man I wanted to be. My father opened the door, a small bundle in his arms. He handed it to me. “Take the babe to Mrs. Watson.”
His eyes were empty of life, as he shut the door with a solid click. I looked into the face of an angel. She looked like my mother, even that young. The turn of her nose, shape of her mouth and chin. She blinked pale blue eyes up at me, but didn’t cry, didn’t squawk once. I took the stairs carefully, and found my way into the kitchen.
Mrs. Watson tried to take my sister, but I held her tight. “I’ll feed her.”
“Oh, lovey, your mama would be proud of you.”
We didn’t say the words, but we both knew. Only one of them could have survived, and I held the proof of the choice in my arms. I said nothing, just helped Mrs. Watson feed my little sister. I wanted to name her, to call her by my mother’s name, but I struggled to find the words. The breath to speak seemed to evade me. So I sat there, holding my little sister, tears tracking my cheeks and splashing onto her perfect skin.
We were like that, she and I, for many years. At twelve, I became a father in essence, if not in truth. Little Angela, she grew and thrived in our home, even if our true father was somewhat absent. His grief consumed him, drove him and took him away from us. My father descended into his study, looking for what I now know was a way to bring my mother back. You see, he had magic, but refused to use it. The times were such that magic could have him burned. Even though the witch trials of Salem were over, ‘accidental’ deaths still happened. More than that, I believe the regret of not using his power, of maybe having been able to save my mother but watching her die, tortured him, still his fear held him back.
And the worst part was he found it; he unlocked the power within himself. I was twenty-five, Angela just turned thirteen. We came home from riding in the park to find things were not as they had been when we’d left.
The first thing I noticed was the smell, the scent of rotting flesh; then it was the dirt smeared on the kitchen floor, and Mrs. Watson was missing. I put Angela behind me and lifted a finger to my lips. We crept through the kitchen and into the parlor.
Our father stood in the center of the room, Mrs. Watson at his feet, blood pooling around her head. Angela gasped and let out a whimper. But of course, that wasn’t the worst of it.
Swaying in the corner of the room, there stood a figure in a worm eaten wedding gown, jagged pieces of blond hair cascading down her back. I knew, in that moment, who it was.
“Angela, run to the stables and hide.” I kept my voice low, never taking my eyes off the scene in front of me. Another gasp and she did as I asked, her footsteps receding quickly.
I waited until I was sure she was gone before stepping farther into the parlor. “Father, what have you done?”
“I’ve brought her back. I finally did it. The church can go to hell. I won’t be denied my beloved one.” His words had no conviction. There was no denying what he’d brought back was missing everything that made up a living person. She moved, she reacted to things, but it wasn’t my mother. It wasn’t my father’s beloved, she wasn’t the one we missed. Not anymore.
“You have to put her back.” I held my hand out to him, pleading. “Let her body rest. All there is left of her are Angela and me. We are here, we need a father.” I didn’t think I needed a father, no, but I knew Angela loved him dearly and wanted him to take notice of her. Of course, the fact that she mirrored his lost wife both thrilled and repelled him.
He nodded slowly. “You’re right, I know you are. I just . . . I had to try. This power, there is so much of it. You have it in you too.”
I cleared my throat, not wanting to discuss the subject until the dead body was where it belonged—in the ground. Back then we didn’t call them zombies, they were the walking dead and they were a curse laid on people. I didn’t want to see her face, but she turned. The shape of her skull bit through her skin, there were bits and pieces of her face hanging. Rage lit through me, that he would do this to her, that he would force me to see her face that way. To steal the memories I had of my mother and replace them.
With that . . . thing.
We fought, my father and I. I waited until he put her back in the ground, and then we had it out. Fists and words, and finally he drew a gun on me, pressed it against my chest and pulled the trigger.
I fell, eyes wide as I stared up at him, Angela was screaming and the world bent around me as I fell. “It will be all right, I’ll wait for you,” I said, knowing I would at least be with my mother then.
Only, I didn’t go to my mother, not as I thought I would have. I woke to the taste of blood on my lips, and a familiar scent in my nose. Soft satin brushed against my cheek. It took me too long to realize what had happened. Too long to stop myself.
“It will be all right, I’ll wait for you,” were the last words Angela whispered to me, as her body went limp in my arms, my teeth marks in her neck.
My father screaming that I’d killed her, that I was a monster. But he was the one who’d made me.
You see, vampires were originally created by necromancers, and my father, upon shooting his only son, thought it prudent to bring him back to life. Only not as a rotter, that wouldn’t do. No, he brought me back as a vampire, catching my soul before it fled. And when I woke, out of my mind with hunger, I attacked Angela, drained her body completely. Killed my sister, the closest thing I would ever have to a daughter.
From that moment on, I didn’t know who I hated more, my father, or myself. And when you brought him back with you, when you brought Thomas to Doran’s home, it wasn’t the vampires he feared, it was me. He didn’t want to face me, even after all these years. Because what I know
now, and what I’m sure he came to see too, was that it all fell in his lap. A new vampire has no control, has very little ability to do anything but feed and hide from the light.
And that is the story of how I came to be. Of why I can jump the veil with ease. It is the blood of a necromancer that flows through my veins. That is why I can do what other vampires cannot.
Chapter 9
I stared at Faris, his story still ringing in my ears. “Thomas was your father? Thomas, the necromancer, with a gazillion fucking zombies buried in his yard?”
“Yes.”
“And Berget killed him.” My heart ached from his story, and it had a ring of truth that even I wouldn’t deny. Faris had done some shitty things, but his beginning had been fucking awful, to say the least. And even I wasn’t so cold as to not feel he’d been dealt a rough hand.
“Yes, she did. But from what I saw, he . . . egged her on. I think it was his way of committing suicide. He was ready to go. We’d had a . . . discussion about the past, and we’d come to an agreement not to bring it up again.” He kept his eyes down and without thinking, I leaned forward and brushed back a long piece of his hair. He seemed so lost, like the little boy he spoke about.
“I’m sorry for all your losses. At least in that, we understand each other.”
He gave a dry laugh and nodded. “True, in grief we are very alike. Except I’ve not lost anyone I loved since I became a vampire.”
“Because you wouldn’t allow yourself to love?” I spit it out before I thought better of it. Mostly because I already knew the answer.
Faris stared hard at me and I squirmed in my seat.
“No, I have not. There is something I would offer you, though, now that you know the truth about me.”
“What is that?” I tightened my grip on the blanket, wondering.
“Necromancers, they can allow a spirit into their body for a time. Not long, but long enough to speak to them.”
Stitched Page 7
