Dead Girls Don't Sing

by Casey Wyatt

  “Tsk, tsk. Somebody is too anal retentive.” With a maniacal giggle, I fanned the papers into a circular pattern like a hostess at a cocktail party. I arranged the pens so they looked like a wave pattern. I placed the envelope on top leaving no doubt who messed with his stuff. The servants didn’t deserve blame for my pranks.

  Mission accomplished, I stood and bumped my knee against the corner of the desk.

  “Son of a bitch!” I bent to massage the boo-boo and whacked into a drawer that I know hadn’t been opened earlier.

  “I should respect his privacy.” I stood and walked away, content with the knowledge of a good deed done.

  Seriously? You don’t believe that.

  Of course, I didn’t walk away!

  This was an opportunity to spy on Jonathan, something I hadn’t had the opportunity to do the first time around. Normally, he kept his desk locked tighter than Fort Knox.

  With glee, I yanked the drawer open and found more papers. The bottle of top-shelf Scotch proved my theory that I did drive him to drink on occasion. Overall, very boring stuff.

  And it was a total fake-out.

  Everyone knows old desks have secret compartments. Even President Kennedy’s desk had one. And it also worked for Nicholas Cage when he stole the Declaration of Independence in that movie. I just needed to determine the correct order of drawers and find a secret lever and I would find gold.

  I’m not gonna lie. It took longer than I thought. It only cost me some undignified contortions underneath, a goose egg on the back of the head, and scuffed knees. But it was so worth it when I heard that satisfying click of a door unlatching.

  Scrambling to the front, I saw that a panel had swung open revealing a cubby no bigger than my two fists. I reached inside and retrieved a stack of letters bound with faded ribbon.

  “Got a secret lover, do you . . .” The words died away as I read who they were addressed to. What the bloody fuck?

  They were mine. And I’d never seen them.

  I snapped the ribbon and rifled through the piles. Each had been opened and presumably read. The slant of the handwriting told me what I needed to know without needing to examine the post marks.

  Grace, my chattier sister, sent the most letters, followed by Faith. A few letters were from Edwin, most likely written from Eton while he attended school. Only one appeared to be from my father, written in his shaky, drunkard scrawl. I didn’t care to read it.

  Most of the letters dated back to my surprise wedding to Jonathan. In the beginning, the letters arrived like clockwork about once a month. Over time, they dwindled to one a year, stopping at year ten. The last one was from Edwin, postmarked London.

  It broke my heart to think they believed I ignored them.

  “God damn you, Jonathan,” I snarled as I sifted down to the last envelope.

  A telegram had arrived today. He’d read it, and, like all the other correspondence addressed to me, he hid it. He’d probably read it while I slept in bed with those other men, delighted he knew a secret that I didn’t.

  Thalia wouldn’t get the chance to kill him in the future. Not if I did it first.

  Forgetting the letters, I read the telegram.

  Luv. Even time cannot separate us. Our light is safe in our family’s arms. I will find you as soon as I can. Greet me with a big SMILE.

  True to form, each line contained a clue that Ian expected me to translate. The “light” meant Vala was safe and sound.

  I will find you. Couldn’t get more straightforward than that.

  Smile. All caps. Of course, Belmont, my family’s estate in England. Ian had received the message from my cuff and he wanted me to meet him there.

  I tucked the telegram in my pocket. I considered leaving the letters, but I couldn’t do it. I may have been ignorant of them before, but I wasn’t now. They were mine, and I felt justified in taking them and reading them. As soon as I had the time.

  Before exiting the study, I paused to arrange my clothes, so I didn’t look like I’d been crawling on the floor.

  A bigger worry rose. I hadn’t had time to directly ask the Ancients about the space-time continuum.

  I’d heard of Chaos Theory. The whole “a butterfly flaps its wings in Africa and causes a hurricane in Florida” thing. Would there be repercussions to my own future based on what I did now?

  Since I didn’t know the answer, better to proceed with caution. I’d have to go to England, retrieve the cure and then, somehow, ensure that Old Me returned to France before Jonathan did. Oh, and return to my time with the cure intact.

  Easy, peasy. When has my life ever gone smoothly?

  Maybe time would be on my side for once.

  Chapter Eight

  Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

  “Come on, come on. Can’t this thing move faster?” I grumbled in the empty carriage. Why didn’t we have a car yet?

  Before I could leave for England, I still had to make an appearance at the station to say goodbye to my departing husband. I’d done it originally and I needed to be there. Even though I wanted to throttle Jonathan on sight and demand answers.

  The pace of the horses was maddeningly slow, giving me plenty of time to hold imaginary confrontations. In each version, I vented my righteous anger on him. I rehearsed my speech with the vigor and passion of Inigo Montoya railing against the six-fingered man.

  Somewhere along the way I’d decided that I couldn’t give up the chance to confront Jonathan or, at the very least, find out if he knew about the bracelet or the whole “we’re descended from ancient Martians” thing.

  But what about Vala? Said the stupid, logical voice of reason.

  Crap cakes.

  It had a point. If I went completely nuclear and said more than I should, would it prevent me from accomplishing my goal? And if I tipped off Jonathan and he didn’t go to India, what would happen to the future?

  Harrumph and balderdash.

  I crossed my arms as best I could in my ridiculous traveling outfit. Hélène refused to let me leave the house without the proper hat and coat. Now I understand why I’d adapted so well to stripping. The weight of my clothes and lack of motion was akin to being swaddled in twenty layers of fabric.

  Twenty layers of prison-like confinement. Being trapped in a swaying, glacially moving box wasn’t helping.

  The sides of the carriage seemed to collapse inward. Air was nonexistent and the windows were too small. My throat squeezed, and the fabric of my high-collared blouse felt like a boa constrictor drawing its coils tighter and tighter.

  In a fit, I yanked off the gloves, popping the fairy-sized buttons on the coach’s floor. My coat constricted my movement. I had to take it off—

  It had been a while since I’d had a full-blown panic attack. Claustrophobia was never pretty.

  “Keep it calm.” If I showed up missing half my outfit, Jonathan could compel the truth out of me using his Sire superpowers.

  Think of Vala.

  Think of Ian.

  Think of home.

  Mars’ unwelcoming surface flashed into my mind. The blue sunset. The glittering underground lake. My friends and my Family stood before me.

  Calmness poured over me, relaxing my limbs, easing the irrational need for open space.

  Hooves clopped in a rhythmic beat while the carriage rocked to and fro, lulling my eyes closed.

  A whip cracked.

  The driver shouted. I sat bolt upright, eyelids snapping open. Unsure of how long I’d drifted off, I checked out the window. The outskirts of Paris. I’d been asleep about an hour, then.

  I retrieved the telegram from my reticule and studied it again. There wasn’t much to it. The telegram’s origination point was blank. Ian had probably bribed the operator to avoid Jonathan’s further involvement.

  Jonathan would find a suspected lover and kill him on sight. That’s what Ian would have done, and he wouldn’t risk a confrontation that could alter the future, hence the need for subterfuge.

  No buts, no
coconuts.

  One thing I did know, Ian was headed to Belmont Manor. Which is why my luggage was stacked atop the carriage.

  The driver would purchase a steamer ticket to the Channel while I was seeing Jonathan off. The man was under strict instructions to forget where I had gone as soon as he returned to the palace. Jonathan may have been the boss, but I’d learned a few things about mind control over the years too.

  I wasn’t in the past to relive the life I’d already led. I was there to save my Family and protect their future. The less Jonathan knew the better. That didn’t mean he was forgiven for withholding my family’s letters.

  Truths needed to be told. If I revealed that I had found the letters, he’d know I had the telegram too. It would make me fair play for questions that I didn’t want to answer.

  I needed to play a different angle. And Jonathan had unknowingly given me the perfect one.

  We arrived at the Gare de l’Est—that’s East Station for non-French speakers. The carriage clattered away, the driver off to do my bidding. I entered the main concourse and was immediately engulfed in a hive of human activity.

  Porters wheeled carts burgeoning with trunks, valises, hatboxes, and even a bird cage or two. Society matrons cut through crowds, busts pushed out like the prow of a ship parting waves. Aromas of bread, pastries, and grease mingled with noxious coal-fire fumes and the reek of unwashed bodies. The shriek of excited children and screaming infants made me long for Vala.

  Making my way through the crowd, I exited the main hub and headed toward a quieter part of the station. Darkness crept beside me. Shadows and an unwelcoming aura warned humans away. We didn’t have shamans or witches—at least that I knew of—but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn someone had worked some magic.

  Alone with only the sound of my feet clapping against the tiles, I stopped at an unassuming door that led to a private railway station. Jonathan and the other undead masters used it to travel in and out of Paris, the mortals none the wiser.

  Apparently, Jonathan had been a shareholder since the Gare de l’Est opened in the late 1840s. The vampire had his fingers in every venture that would provide him an advantage or profit. He saw the long, long road ahead. Thank goodness. He’d spared us from hardship on numerous occasions because of his extensive wealth and social networks.

  Several private rail cars waited on the tracks. I headed to the first in line. I recognized the family crest he liked to use in Europe, an unassuming golden fleur-de-lis on a black background. He claimed it dated back to the early 1000s.

  I think he made it up.

  An undead porter stood at attention and assisted me into the car. The metal steps were not really conducive to women wearing narrow skirts. Because India was a prolonged journey, they were taking several cars, including a dining room and separate sleeping cars for Jonathan and the servants he towed along.

  The car I entered was the sitting room with a stocked bar, club chairs, and a poker table.

  “Ah, my pet, you’ve arrived to see me off.” Jonathan stood and kissed me on each cheek then planted one on my lips.

  Jay remained seated, grumpy puss on his face, turning newspaper pages with an annoyed crinkle and flick. He ignored me with a passion.

  He was still mad at me. That was his problem. Going to India was for his own good.

  “Of course.” Swooping my skirt aside, I plunked into a club chair and fanned my face. “That was quite a walk.”

  “Let me get you a refreshment.” A servant offered me a crystal glass of red liquid. Blood wine or what I’d dubbed Bline. Jonathan had made the fatal mistake of letting me know the phrase annoyed him, and I used it ever since. And everyone thinks the media coined word mash-ups.

  “Bline. How lovely!” One must keep up appearances.

  Jonathan grimaced but remained silent on the matter. Tart liquid coated my tongue and burned down my throat.

  His smug smile was my punishment. “No, darling. It’s wine from our vineyard.”

  Rocket fuel was a better description, but I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of knowing I thought it tasted like crap.

  “Mmmm. Delicious.”

  We both knew I hated it. And the fact he was leaving for a month meant I should have considered something else . . .

  At some unseen sign from Jonathan, Jay and the servant headed toward the exit to the next train car. When Jay turned around and flashed a glum look, my stomach wanted to heave up the wine.

  I knew what was coming. My least favorite reminder of how dependent I was on Jonathan’s vein.

  I would need to feed from him before he left. And as much as I wanted to bolt and refuse, I was in Old Me’s body. And that body was young and needed to feed more regularly.

  Jonathan removed his jacket and folded it neatly before hanging it on the back of a chair. With a grin, he unbuttoned his crisp white shirt, button by precise button.

  “I bet you thought about running. Didn’t you?” he said.

  Damn it. I had. What if he was on to my plan? I slapped the panic away. Don’t be a fool, he can’t know that.

  “You know I learned my lesson after last time,” I hedged.

  I couldn’t recall a specific incident, but who could blame me? There had been so many. I’d been a pain in the butt, guaranteed. My refusal to feed from Jonathan more than was absolutely necessary dated back to my creation.

  He slid the shirt off and placed it over the chair. I’m not gonna lie, his body was Greek God, marble statue perfect. Right down to the fine dusting of hair on his chest and a furry trail that led past his belly button and disappeared at his waistline.

  “Charity, I let you get away with ignoring your wifely duties to me. But I will not tolerate your refusal to feed. You must take from my neck alone.”

  That lump of desire had to be Old Me barging into my brain. I loved Ian, and I had no plans to fulfill any “wifely duties” to anyone but him. I had to feed. My hunger roared to life with the regularity of a daily tide.

  I needed my strength and mental energy to complete my task. I could swallow—pardon the pun—my pride and drink from him. The only question, had I refused his neck this far back? Or was that yet to come?

  Smug in my obedience, he sat in the chair across from me and patted his lap. “Come, wife. I can sense your need. Quench your thirst.”

  Despite myself, my fangs elongated and saliva wet my mouth. “I don’t need anything,” I said fighting the urge to run over to him. With deliberate slowness, I took my time taking those few steps.

  Coal-fired embers burned in his eyes as his pupils flashed from brown to red. The servants in India used to run from him when they saw that, naming him demon.

  I could understand why. His pull was seductive. His magnetism spoke of the inevitable. My fangs would penetrate his skin. We both knew it.

  I crossed the distance and stood before him. He tugged me down the rest of the way. I reached for his throat.

  His hands clamped on my wrists, the grip viselike, almost painful. “No, wife. You will wait. Me first.”

  Oh shit.

  Before I could even put up a fight, and it would be a real one, not token resistance, he’d bent me backward and bared my neck.

  His bite came swift and hard.

  I cried out. Angry tears trailed from my squeezed eyelids. Had this happened and I blocked it out? Was this the moment where I went into full revolt over taking blood from his throat?

  A harsh reality snapped my eyes open.

  It was Ian’s telegram.

  Jonathan had never considered that I might stray. That I might desire another male over him. This was about dominance and control.

  In our years together, I rarely saw this side of him. The most recent had been the day he died in the missile silo before we departed for Mars. He’d torn Pearl’s throat when she made rude comments about me in his hearing.

  Oh God! Why hadn’t I seen it before? I was so stupid.

  The pain he must have felt on receiving that note.
I’d hurt him. The fact that it was unintentional and timey-whimey didn’t matter.

  Relaxing my grip from his shoulders where I’d clamped on, I slid my hands to the base of his neck and twined my fingers in his hair.

  Black stars burst into my field of vision. He’d taken so much blood. Weakness relaxed my limbs. He might drain me dry. And could I blame him?

  His savagery was warranted. Even in the undead world, vampires mated for life. If someone as old as Jonathan took me as his mate, then I must have meant something to him.

  One of my big flaws—stubbornness—had hampered my ability to see clearly. I had so much growing up to do, and somehow, he’d seen that in Old Me and took his typical long view.

  When I asked for a Family, he gave it to me.

  When I told him I was bored, he’d understood and ultimately created the life we had until Thalia destroyed it.

  Even on his last day, rather than hand me over, he sacrificed himself.

  Torment raged inside me.

  On the one hand, he’d lied to me and played God with my life. On the other, if he hadn’t found me, I’d have remained mortal, stuck in a life I would have hated. Caged by convention and a prisoner of that time’s standards, I would have become a shell of the person I am today.

  In a roundabout way, Jonathan had given me a wondrous life, and without him I wouldn’t have my baby or Ian. Vala. Would I ever hold her again?

  My sweet girl. My heart plunged into sadness. I’d never see her grow up.

  Jonathan paused, his fangs slipping out. “I forgive you. Never forget. You are mine.”

  Had he read my thoughts? Could he feel my emotions through a bond similar to what Ian and I had? Without another word, he fed again, each suck pulling the life from me.

  “Well, I don’t forgive you,” I whispered with my last bit of strength.

  He chuckled. Hey, he was the one who’d torn my jugular open. If he expected gratitude, he could suck it.

  After another minute, maybe two, darkness rolled over my vision. Soon it would be lights-out for me. My thoughts turned to Ian, Vala, and my vampire Family—the one I had urged Jonathan to create for me. I was sorry for them too.