by Kristie Cook
The basement was divided into two rooms, both of them looking a lot like what I called the dungeons at our own safe house, although the dark, windowless basement made it feel more like a real dungeon down here. It even smelled dank and musty, like I imagined the bowels of an ancient castle would. Silver chains with cuffs hung from the support beams overhead, and the concrete floor angled toward a large drain in the center of each room. Terry moved the bed out of the east room and replaced it with a worktable on wheels, and Tristan set the wooden box on top of it. Tristan and Char grasped the lid, and my excitement about seeing the nearly dead vamp suddenly waned. I stepped back to join Terry by the wall. With no pomp or circumstance, they lifted the top.
And the smell. Oh, God, the smell.
My stomach lurched, and we all automatically pulled back as a sickening sweet odor of mold, dust, and rotting flesh plumed from the box and hung in the air. I clamped my hand over my mouth and nose to keep from gagging. Once they recovered from the assault to their noses, Tristan and Char walked around the casket, and then stood next to each other on the far side as they studied the body. When they both made funny faces, morbid curiosity got the best of me, as it did Terry, and we both crept closer. My heart stuttered in my chest as I took in the sight. The vampire looked marginally better than my overactive imagination had envisioned, especially with that god-awful smell.
A full head of dull brown hair crowned his head when, for some reason, I’d expected only a few gray and brittle strands dangling from a skull. His sunken eyes were open and blue, staring lifelessly at the ceiling, when I’d admittedly imagined him as not having any eyeballs at all. I didn’t know why I expected such ridiculousness—maybe the writer in me had thought they’d been eaten away by worms or bugs. In fact, I’d actually thought creepy-crawly things would be skittering all over him, although I knew logically this vision made no sense since he’d been buried in concrete, not in dirt. A suit, which had probably looked smart and classy in 1913 but was now dusty and covered in century-old mildew, clothed his bony body. The jacket, vest, and button-down shirt underneath had been torn open, revealing a portion of his torso. His skin, muscles, and apparently all of his organs were dried up and clung to his bones, as though every drop of moisture in them had been sucked out by a vacuum, making him look like a skeleton covered with a grayish colored shrink wrap.
“Blood’s ready?” Charlotte asked as she leaned over him, studying the stake in his chest—a dull silver object about the size of a conductor’s wand.
“Right here.” Terry brought over an armful of donor bottles, set them on a steel table, and opened one as she stood at the head of the coffin.
“Alexis, this could be dangerous,” Char said. “I’d prefer you go upstairs.”
“Yeah, right.” I snorted. “Not a chance.”
“Ugh. You’re too much like your mother,” she muttered as she wrapped her hands around the stake. “Terry, have a bottle ready and at his lips when I pull this out. Tristan, be ready to paralyze him. Alexis, stay the hell back until we know if we have a monster on our hands. You’re not getting hurt on my watch.”
I rolled my eyes, but returned to my position by the wall. Charlotte swallowed once, and then counted to three. She pulled the stake, and my breath caught as the rod unceremoniously slipped free as though it’d been stuck in nothing more than sand. My lungs kept the air trapped as Terry separated the vamp’s lips and poured bottle after bottle into his mouth. Slowly his skin started pushing away from the bones and plumping up. His face gradually took on the appearance of a live human rather than a skeleton. By the time Terry opened the fourth bottle, the splotchy skin we could see on his face, hands, and torso became a smooth porcelain color, and his hair brightened from a dull dark brown to a shinier caramel color. Life sparked in his blue eyes, and he blinked.
His hand twitched.
His fangs slipped out.
His eyes moved slowly around the room as he took in his surroundings from his prone position.
His gaze landed on me and held, something flickering in those sky-blue orbs.
“Sophia?” he croaked.
My eyes widened and the air finally whooshed out of my lungs. Oh, crap. Did Mom do this to him? Everyone else’s focus flew to me then back to him.
“Sophia,” he said again. This time it wasn’t a question, but I shook my head.
He struggled to sit up, but he hadn’t regained his full strength yet. He settled on an elbow, still not taking his eyes off me.
“Yes,” he insisted. “You’re Sophia. But why are you clothed so oddly?”
He spoke with a heavy British accent, and his tone was not accusing or frightening, but merely perplexed.
I cleared my throat. “I’m not Sophia.”
He blinked. His jaw muscle popped. A harder edge entered his voice. “Why do you deny me?”
I looked at Tristan, but he only offered a small shrug.
“Because I’m not Sophia. I’m Alexis, her daughter.”
His brows pushed together as confusion filled his face. Then his features contorted with indignation.
“Why do you attempt to deceive me?” he demanded. “Why do you tell lies? This is not proper behavior.”
“Hey, man,” Tristan said, “be careful what you say to her. That’s my wife you’re talking to.”
The vamp’s face grew red as he twisted in his coffin to face Tristan, and his petulance turned to outrage. “Your wife? How dare you!”
Tristan raised a brow, which I knew meant his patience was wearing thin.
“Wait a minute,” I said, taking a step closer, and the vampire’s attention swung to me again. “Who are you? How do you know my mom?”
“Who am I?” he nearly yelled. “I am Winston!”
Charlotte gasped. “Oh, dear God. Get your mother on the phone.”
Did she know him? But how? Nineteen-thirteen was before Mom’s Ang’dora, which meant before she knew anything about the Amadis or Daemoni, including knowing Char.
“Now!” the warlock barked.
I cocked my head as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pressed the icon to FaceTime Mom, thinking Charlotte wanted this guy to see that Mom and I were two different people. The vampire shrunk away when he saw the gadget and eyed it with a mix of suspicion and curiosity in his expression. He’d come from a different time and had no idea when he was, let alone where. But at least the interesting object had calmed his irritation with me.
“Is everything okay, honey?” Mom asked as soon as she answered. A common greeting these days. She sat at her desk, and the angle of her image made me think she’d answered on her iPad.
“Um . . . I don’t know. Do you know this guy?” I switched the phone’s camera to the back lens to show the recently revived vampire. “He says his name is Winston.”
Mom’s face blanched.
“For the love of God,” she whispered, and she grabbed the outside of the screen, her face coming closer to the camera. Followed by a crash and the screen showing the ceiling of her office.
“Mom?” I asked. “Is that a yes?” No answer. “Mom?”
“Alexis? Are you still there?” came her voice.
“Sophia?” Winston said, his eyes darting around the room to identify the source of her voice. “Sophia! Is that you?”
“Call me back on my phone,” Mom whispered, and then I saw her hand reach across the screen and disconnect our call.
I slipped out of the room and called her on the phone, figuring she wanted more privacy than FaceTime gave us.
“Where in the hell did you find this guy, and who does he think he is?” Mom demanded with a rancor I rarely heard from her.
“Um . . . well, we found him buried in a foundation of an old bank,” I said, and I told her the story. She remained so silent when I finished, I thought I’d lost the connection. “Mom?”
“Nineteen-thirteen, you said?”
“Yes, that’s what Terry told us. The foundation was poured in 1913 and the building
finished in 1915.”
“Impossible,” Mom gasped. “He died in December 1911.”
“I did not die,” the vampire yelled, apparently hearing her. So much for her plan of privacy. “I was turned!”
“What are you talking about, Mom?” I asked as I walked toward the basement steps, as far from the vampire as possible. “Who is this guy?”
Again she didn’t answer for a long moment.
“I’m on my way,” she finally said instead of answering me.
“What? You’re coming here?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I believe the new jet is here and available, and if it’s not, I’ll make it that way.”
“Mom, you’re talking crazy. You don’t need to come all the way over here.”
“Yes, I do! I’ll be there soon. Just . . . try to keep him calm in the meantime. Don’t let him leave!”
“Who is he?” I asked again. “What does he mean to you?”
She blew out a breath, and her voice came out shaky, as though she wasn’t quite sure she believed her own words. I nearly dropped the phone when she said them.
“If he’s really who he says he is . . . Winston was my husband, honey.”
Chapter 17
What?
“Your husband?” I nearly shrieked. “You never said anything—”
“I’ll explain when I get there,” she said, and the call fell silent. I looked at the phone screen: she’d hung up.
I tapped the phone against my chin, wracking my brain for any mention of a Winston or a husband. The only marriage I knew about was with her true love, a story she’d disclosed only a few years ago. What was his name? Otto? Orville? Something like that. Not even close to Winston.
“Sophia!” The vampire’s voice grew louder and more demanding.
I crossed over to the door and had barely entered the room and opened my mouth when his blue eyes darted to me and turned bright red as they filled with rage.
“Who are you? What did you do to my Sophia?” he demanded. Without a thought to warn me, he sprang from his wooden box and suddenly stood in front of me, the blood already building his strength. He was nearly as tall and as broad as Tristan. His large hands clamped on my shoulders, and he lifted me off the ground. His nostrils flared, and he dipped forward, his nose at my throat, where my pulse thumped excitedly. He inhaled deeply, and then hissed, “Amadis.”
He pulled back enough to look at my face, studying it as though trying to determine if I were really my mother. His fangs slipped out from under his upper lip, which curled up in a snarl. Hunger and desire filled his eyes. The need to drink consumed his mind. His mouth opened wide with the thought of diving for my throat, so I shot electricity at him.
Tristan or Charlotte—or both, and maybe Terry, too—must have acted at the same time. I suddenly stood on my feet again, and the vampire was in the center of the room, his arms stretched over his head and his wrists and ankles in shackles. His eyes widened as they scanned the room.
“You Amadis whores,” he bellowed. “I should have known!” His gaze fell on Tristan. “Not you. I know you. Seth. Evil reincarnate himself. Why do you stand there, man? Help me out of this bloody mess!”
When Tristan refused, the vampire became more irate. His eyes remained a frightening red. He threw his body back and forth and side to side, trying to free himself from the silver chains. When we attempted to ask him questions or to explain what had happened to him, he yelled and hollered more profanities at us. I opened my mind to discover the same anger and blasphemies running through his head.
“That’s enough,” Tristan growled, paralyzing him so we wouldn’t have to listen to the clank and rattle of the chains any longer. “Charlotte, muffle the room. I’m done listening to this.”
He grabbed my hand and left the room, pulling me all the way up the stairs with him. His jaw muscle twitched as he sat at the kitchen table with his fists in front of him. I found a bottle of beer in the refrigerator, cracked it open, and pulled a few swigs before giving him the rest. He downed it in one gulp.
“If Sophia hadn’t said what she did, I’d have hurt him a lot worse for his rude behavior toward you, and for how he treated Char and Terry, too,” Tristan finally said.
I placed my hands on his shoulders and squeezed, then rubbed his back. “For a British man of his time, you would have thought he’d be more of a gentleman.”
Tristan let out a harrumph. “He’s Daemoni. What do you expect? He’s lucky I didn’t kill him, because killing a Daemoni is all I’ve wanted to do since Dorian disappeared. He just needs to give me an excuse.”
I leaned over, wrapped my arms around him, and rested my chin on his shoulder. “As much as I’ve wanted to murder them, too, you know this vamp has nothing to do with Dorian’s kidnapping.”
He didn’t reply for a long moment. I hugged him tighter and pressed my lips against his neck until he finally relaxed under my hold. He lifted his hand to my wrists under his chin and gave them a squeeze.
“Look at you, talking me down,” he said. “That’s a switch.”
“We’re a team,” I murmured in his ear. “If we don’t have each other’s backs, then who will?”
He reached around and pulled me into his lap, but as soon as I was comfortable against his chest, Charlotte and Terry entered the kitchen. Worry lines creased Char’s forehead.
“How am I not surprised this is the kind of man your mother would fall for?” she said after she grabbed a beer for herself and sat across the table from us.
Terry poured herself a glass of wine and brought a beer each for Tristan and me before joining us at the table.
“I didn’t even know about him,” I admitted, and I asked Char, “Do you think he’s the real deal?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t assigned to protect your mother when she’d been with Winston, so I only know what she’s told me about him. Like the fact that he died from cancer. So I can’t say if this bloke is him or not. All I can say is he better not hurt her. For his own sake. If he does . . .”
“Vanessa’s idea of finding a fresh foundation is sounding better and better, isn’t it?” I finished.
Charlotte and Tristan both lifted their beers to clink with mine.
* * *
“Where is he?” Mom demanded as soon as she entered the safe house a few hours later, Charlotte right behind her. Char had picked her up at the airport since she couldn’t flash, and she’d needed a protector’s escort.
I looked over Mom’s shoulder at Char.
“I told her everything,” the warlock said. “At least, what little we know.”
I couldn’t imagine what had been going through Mom’s head for the entire trip. I knew how I’d felt when Tristan had returned after seven years, but that was nothing in comparison, and she still didn’t know if this vampire had really been her husband. She’d had to wonder for the whole plane ride over, making it excruciatingly long even at warlock speed. Of course, for all I knew, maybe he’d meant nothing to her. Maybe it had been a marriage of convenience. She’d never bothered telling me about him, after all. On the other hand, she’d been shocked to see him on the screen. She hadn’t expected him to be alive in any kind of condition. So she certainly had to have questions galore, but Charlotte didn’t have many answers to offer. All we really knew was that he was one pissed off vampire.
“Take me to him,” Mom ordered Char. “Now.”
Tristan and I followed Mom and Charlotte down the stairs, and Vanessa followed us. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with reviving the vampire—as tough as she was, she had a weak stomach when it came to those kinds of things—but she’d promised to be there when Mom arrived. As the only other vampire in the house, she could be a big help if things went wrong. The rest of the team stayed in position at the top of the stairs, ready to act as well.
We all stopped in front of the door. The room remained muffled, so we heard nothing coming from inside. A check into the vamp’s mind told me he
continued to throw a grade-A vampire fit. Charlotte grasped the doorknob, but paused and looked at Mom with her brows high.
“One more time—” she started.
“I know,” Mom nearly growled, her impatience obvious. “He’s dangerous. If he’s who he says he is, he’s always had a bit of a temper.”
“Well, now he’s got that temper as a vampire,” Char said. “Be prepared for anything.”
Mom gave her a single, sharp nod, and after another moment of hesitation, Charlotte twirled her free hand in the air while twisting the knob and throwing the door open. Winston was in the middle of another round of cursing, but fell silent when his gaze found Mom in the doorway.
“Sophia?” he nearly whispered. “Is it really you?”
Mom simply stood there, her mouth hanging open. We all stood back a few paces, carefully watching both of them, prepared to act if necessary, but they only stared at each other in silence. Eventually Mom’s hands moved up to cover her mouth. She took one step into the room and to the side. Another step farther in and to the other side. Winston remained perfectly still as she studied him, only his eyes moving as he drank in the sight of her.
His whole demeanor changed. Anger no longer pulsed off of him in hot waves. The profanities and threats cleared out of his mind, revealing something else. Wonder. Confusion. Disbelief.
“Sophia?” he said again, his voice lower than a whisper.
Mom let out a little noise like a hiccup. She took a step closer. “Oliver? My Oliver?”
The vampire’s face lit up in a grin, his eyes melting into a sparkling blue, dimples punctuating his lifted cheeks.
“Sophia,” he said, and this time it wasn’t a question.
“Oliver!” She crossed the last few steps to him in a blur and threw her arms around him. Her body shook in what I assumed to be sobs.
Oliver. That had been the name of her true love. Tears dared to prick my eyes. But wait . . .
I looked at Charlotte with wide, inquiring eyes. She only shrugged. I didn’t particularly want to piss the vampire off again, especially with Mom in the danger zone, but someone somewhere was missing something.
