Mr. Vrana (A Soulmark Series Book 4)

by Rebecca Main

  “I see,” I murmur, appraising Claire anew. “How long have you been in the Thorburn's service exactly?”

  “About four years now. Since I was sixteen.” Four years of knowledge.

  “I do have to go, but we should grab a drink sometime.”

  “Really?” Hope shines behind her eyes. I give her a soft smile in return. “That would be nice. Thanks for not”—her shoulders rise and fall dramatically—“thinking I’m some kind of freak.”

  “Aren’t we all here? This place should be called Cirque de Freak.”

  Claire smiles widely, a blush coloring her neck before she clears her throat. “You know, if you really want to make it here, you shouldn’t do that PDA stuff, not if it bothers you. You’re just playing into their hand, you know? And they’ve been playing this game a long time, so you shouldn't fall for the bait. Just be you. They can’t touch that.”

  I consider her soft-spoken words and let a grin grow slowly on my lips. “Perhaps that’s not such a bad idea. I suppose being employed by Thorburn, you don’t receive too much flak from the peanut gallery?”

  Her smile turns strained, and she shuffles back a step. “No. Not from the peanut gallery. Listen, it was really nice bumping into you—like, literally. I’ll see you around?”

  She walks off before I can say another word. How… interesting.

  Bumping into Claire solidifies two things in my mind. First, there is more to learn from her than she let on. And second, I don’t need to be a simpering fool at all to make it here or the advice of Sebastian’s contact. Turning on my heel, I walk back to the Vrana apartment suite without the advice of the mysterious contact.

  ++

  The next evening is a rare sight. Sebastian is furious when he discovers I didn’t meet his contact. He throws a tantrum that would make a two-year-old proud, and Ruby gawks at the scene. Books are strewn across the room. The sofas are upended. A lamp lies in pieces on the floor. All the while I put on my most unaffected air, painting my nails without a word or apology.

  “What did you do?”

  I pass Ruby a wide-eyed look. Her short hair looks like a bird’s nest from just having woken, and her nightgown is crumpled.

  “Nothing at all. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?”

  Smoke might as well burst from the man’s ears, but his mouth opens and closes like some fish without making a single word. My eyes narrow on him in a challenge. He doesn’t want the others to know about his contact. I smile pleasantly when he remains a fish out of water.

  “Sebastian is upset on my behalf, which is really quite sweet of him.”

  “And completely out of character,” Ruby mutters, giving Sebastian major side-eye as she approaches the unharmed blood decanters. “Bash?”

  “Thorburn,” Sebastian finally says with a clenched jaw.

  “Oh dear.” Ruby halts her movements to turn an ashen face Sebastian’s way. “What did he say? What did he do?”

  “Humiliated us.”

  Ruby’s shoulders slump. “Don’t let him bring you down, Bash. You know he’s a purist, through and through.”

  I perk up at the slip of information. “What’s a purist?”

  “He believes only vampyrés should be in the court,” Sebastian explains, losing some of his ire as he goes into professor mode. “He also believes the Greater and Minor Households should never have been created. He far preferred when the power was consolidated to the three original households.”

  "But his household employs other supernaturals," I say.

  Sebastian sends a dark smile my way. "They're little more than servants, and he treats them as such."

  The front door opening ends our conversation, with Vrana entering. His brow is already set in a deep scowl, and when he sees the state of the room, it turns particularly murderous.

  “What happened here?” His voice is soft and calm—a dangerous combination.

  “Bash threw a fit,” Ruby explains excitedly. “Adrian humiliated them yesterday.”

  Vrana slams the door shut. “Yes, I heard about your display.” He stalks forward, eyeing the room with distaste before landing on me. “Are you deliberately attempting to sabotage us?”

  I quirk an eyebrow, blowing a light stream of air across my fingernails before responding. “Of course not. I’m rather fond of the prospect of leaving this tomb. As it happens, going about things Sebastian’s way just isn’t working for me.”

  A pulse of anger beats through the bond past the lariat necklace's magic. It’s all the warning I receive before he is kneeling before me. I pass him a cool look beneath my lashes, skimming the line of his jaw, which bears the slightest hint of stubble.

  “You’re to do as Sebastian instructs regarding your relationship.”

  “His way of going about things is going to get us all killed.”

  “And why is that, exactly?” Vrana sits, smoothing a hand over his rumpled shirt.

  “Because we lack chemistry, and the idea of me being lovesick over Sebastian is laughable. Fear not,” I say, leaning in an inch closer to Vrana with a cheeky smile. “I know just what I’m going to do.”

  “This isn’t up for debate, Irina. You will follow orders,” Vrana maintains, mirroring my movement.

  “Or what?”

  The room holds its breath at my daring. Our eyes lock. A clash of blue strung with liquid mercury and pale green. Vrana leans closer, his features rearranging into something less volatile yet no less menacing.

  “Or else you’ll learn the true meaning of humiliation by my hand.” His nearness resonates with the soulmark, making the skin at my wrist itch and my heart speed up its languid pace. I lick my bottom lip and ignore the way his eyes follow.

  “So be it.”

  Vienna | Summer 1832

  The home of Maximilian Vrana was nestled pleasantly between the Donaukanal and Augarten. Like many of the houses and buildings tucked nearby, the Vrana home boasted four floors. Unlike the houses and buildings tucked nearby, the Vrana home also claimed a small interior courtyard. Those who had the fortune of meeting Maximilian Vrana and earning a tour of his beautiful home always found the art and decor tastefully done in the French baroque style, as well as owning an open and airy atmosphere. Many exclaimed one never needs to leave the household for its beauty alone.

  Unbeknownst to the visitors, the occupants of the home rarely did.

  When Jakob awoke one late summer evening—his thirst a snarling beast inside of him—he went in search of Maximilian. He found him in the courtyard standing before several ravens perched upon tall golden perches. His voice was low and rushed, escaping the young vampyré’s sensitive hearing.

  “Good evening, Mr. Vrana,” Jakob announced softly, tugging self-consciously at the bow tie fit around his neck.

  Life had changed dramatically for Jakob Kysely in the span of a few short months. Being in the company of his own kind quite often left him in a state of wonder. They were all unearthly to him. Jakob wondered if they thought the same of him. More oft than not, he believed they didn't. How could they? They were all beautiful creatures of the night, with far more experience than him.

  “Good evening, my friend,” Maximilian replied and turned around. The ravens behind the patriarch fussed for a moment. They allowed their black wings to flap in agitation before they took to the sky. “Must I remind you again to call me 'Max’?” he asked congenially.

  Jakob smiled softly and inclined his head. “Apparently so. Forgive me, Max.”

  “All is forgiven,” Max said. “Come, let us chat in the parlor.”

  Jakob used his vampyric speed to cross the room to Max’s side, and they ambled to the parlor side by side. “Forgive me, but just now it seemed as if you were speaking with that group of ravens. Are they messenger birds of a sort?” Jakob asked.

  Max smiled, a twinkle in his dusty eyes. “Of a sort,” Max confirmed. “You might say we were conspiring together,” he added with a chuckle on his breath.
“But that is a discussion for another day.”

  Upon their entrance, both veered off in different directions. Jakob went to the plush mauve settee and Max to the bar. The room was lit by the faint glow of dusk and the many wall sconces placed around the creamy white room. The itch in Jakob’s throat grew as Max uncorked a decanter of blood, and he fought to keep his semblance of aloofness. His eyes memorized the embossed pattern on the velvet sage curtains, but the distraction was hardly enough.

  “Here you are, Jakob.”

  A wine glass was pressed into his hold, and Jakob took a grateful drink as Max watched him. The older vampyré sat across from the younger with his usual graceful flare by sweeping his jacket's tails out of the way with a lazy flick of his wrist.

  “Thank you,” Jakob murmured, licking the bloody residue off his bottom lip. Jakob sank into his seat, his thirst, while not completely satisfied, did diminish at the soothing touch of blood down his throat.

  “I am a firm believer in the mixing of blood and various spirits, as is Cecil. In her human life, she cooked. I’m sure you’ve noticed her culinary experiments in the kitchen,” he said.

  Jakob ducked his head, a subtle spot of color infusing his sharp cheekbones. “I’ve certainly smelt it.”

  Max’s laughter filled the room. “Indeed! Now, now, let us keep to task. What topic did we leave off on last?”

  “The Great Hysteria.”

  “Ah, yes!” Max concurred ruefully and proceeded to mirror Jakob’s posturing. “The paranormal hysteria of the eighteenth century. Thank the gods that has passed. It was quite literally the bane of my existence for the better part of three decades. There was no place to go that did not fear of some supernatural or another. You are fortunate to have only lost your sense of self in recent years. Any sooner and you would have likely found yourself truly dead.”

  Max shivered good-naturedly, though in his aged eyes there was a suggestion of honest fear.

  “My fortune was found in you, as it would happen.”

  Max preened at Jakob’s admission and raised his glass in salute to the younger. “Excellent, my friend. Now, back to our discussion. What is the most important part of being a vampyré?”

  “Keeping our existence a secret.”

  Max nodded. “Yes. As we have learned that the mere speculation of our existence can bring about the most inappropriate fanfare,” the elder said.

  “What of my brother’s knowledge?”

  Max’s sights narrowed on Jakob. “Your circumstances are unique, though not uncommon. As he is deceased and your secret left untold, you should be safe from persecution among our kind.” Jakob sat up straighter and set his drink on the side table.

  “Persecution?”

  “The announcement of our kind to humans is strictly forbidden and punishable by death.”

  “How could I forget?”

  The two entered into a peaceful silence. The younger mulled over the reiterated piece of information with a growing frown, while the elder watched in amusement.

  “Come now, don’t be so perturbed. You are at no risk of harm. Not under my wing,” Max cajoled, waiting for the tense incline of Jakob’s shoulders to relax. “During your time of… pseudo self-discovery, how did you go about disposing of the bodies? Did you dispose of the bodies?”

  “I did,” Jakob said slowly. Under Max’s faithful study, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “At first, I did. But under cover of the revolution, many of the bodies were left as they were. However,” he continued with averted eyes, “while in the city proper and away from the worst of the fighting, I fared better in covering my tracks.”

  “Good,” Max said with a sigh, the weight of his regard still heavy. “While the accidental death here and there isn’t cause for uproar, do try to refrain from killing. And if the odd murder occurs, be sure to leave no trail or identifying marks on the body.”

  “I understand,” Jakob replied quickly, his embarrassed gaze resting dutifully on the growing dark outside.

  “Wonderful, now onto a more pleasant topic. The gift of vampyrism. You should be grateful such a gift was imparted upon you, Jakob. To turn another is a profound experience, and not something done lightly. Furthermore”—Max leaned back in his seat further, draping one leg elegantly over the other before sipping on his blut wien—“you must understand that we are unlike any other creature. We are not born with any supernatural ability.”

  Jakob colored lightly once more, hoping fervently the other vampyré did not notice. The strange etching on his forearm below his elbow had grown from an odd and indistinct splotch on his skin upon turning into a vampyré into something far more defined. An infinity symbol.

  He dared not ask his mentor what it could mean out of fear. What if the mark was a curse and Max expelled him from his home?

  “Even sorcerers, who must learn their craft, have a small inkling of magic inside their blood. Vampyrés are reborn from their humdrum human lives into something far greater. As such, when the gift of vampyrism is bestowed, the general populace expects fledglings to show a certain amount of gratitude.”

  Jakob, with practiced ease, smoothed his features to reflect a balance of calm regard.

  “Life everlasting is not a gift I look down upon,” he said. “Though, I must admit, in my early years it was hard to accept without the guidance of one such as yourself.”

  “Which is why your existence is such a marvel to me, dear friend! Your constitution is unlike any I have ever known. The strength of your mind… your fortitude is to be commended and regarded as a study of the epitome of patience.”

  Jakob’s ducked his head at the praise. “Thank you. Now knowing your family’s credo, the compliment touches me a great deal more.” Max produced one of his magnanimous smiles.

  “‘Patience Conquers,’ a herrlich credo to live by, and one that becomes even more profound during our life after death. Patience in choosing one’s actions and words can do far more good than not. For a vampyré does not easily forget, Jakob. Our actions and words stay with us for all eternity.

  "Conversely, humans do not live by such standards any longer. The era of a man’s word is fading fast because men know their time on this earth is limited. They know they will come to an end, and their names once tarnished with the lies and deceit they have committed, do not follow them in death.”

  Jakob drank his blut wein, contemplating Max’s wisdom once more. The wine was without acidity and flabby in taste, yet combined with blood, it found a pleasant balance. They conversed on the subject at some length until Jakob noted the way in which Max’s attention drew more frequently to his pocket watch. “I am afraid, my friend, I must depart. Allow me to first lay upon you one last lesson to ruminate on. Respektiere die blut. You must have respect for blood. For blood gives us this life we live. Do not believe those who would say we are savages. We cannot help our nature, and it is in blood we find new life. No, we are not savages—we are the epitome of evolution. We are free of our mortal coil, and it is our responsibility—nay!—duty, to honor that which gives us this superiority.”

  “To the blood,” Jakob said, rising and lifting his glass to the older vampyré. Max stood as well, buttoning his waistcoat as he raised his blut wien to meet Jakob’s.

  “To the blood.”

  ++

  Vienna | Fall 1832

  The night was crisp and filled with a moistness that foretold of the coming rain. On this night, the Vrana family gathered to watch as their patriarch taught their guest how to fight.

  Cecil and Cordelia sat side by side in matching chairs, sipping blut champagne. They wore elegant gowns, with sleeves puffing out to the size of their petite waists.

  “I say, Mr. Kysely, have you never dueled before?” asked the younger of the two women. Her hair was the color of pale wheat and pinned up high upon her head. Her eyes were a dark blue, dotted with specs of pretty silver that hinted at her true age despite her youthful appearance.

&nb
sp; “He has fought before, Cordelia. Do you not recall his tales of the revolution over supper?” the other woman asked. She was a striking beauty, even in her older age, with profoundly dark hair that could be mistaken for the night sky. Her thick eyebrows and lashes only highlighted her piercing eyes.

  Cordelia scoffed in return, though the sound was made in jest. “Ah yes, our little rebel vampyré.” She giggled. “However could I forget, Cecil?”

  The two women laughed gaily as Max directed Jakob into what looked like a pirouette with his thin sword, and into a dégagé derrière a terre.

  “Fighting is like dancing, dear ladies,” Max said with equal joy. “You must know your steps. Know the way your body must move and its capabilities. And above all else, you must be able to read the body language of your partner. Learn how to lead them… and defeat them.”

  The patriarch advanced, his own sword extended to tangle with Jakob’s, much to the delight of the women. Behind them, a man with drab brown hair slicked back with copious amounts of pomade, snorted. His eyes, glued to the book in his hand, did not stray to the dueling duo.

  “Oh, do be a sport, Jasper!” Cordelia scolded with much love in her voice. “Come, sit with us and have a drink. Surely your book can wait.”

  “Is my presence not enough?”

  Cordelia stuck her nose high in the air and tilted a proud smile over her shoulder. “I prefer your presence to be more profound, rather than only in proximity.”

  The male vampyré heaved a sigh, so great the two women fell to laughter again, but his book snapped shut, and he joined them regardless of their teasing.

  With a sharp cry of victory, Max signaled the end of another round of their swordplay.

  “You must use your fledgling strength and speed, Jakob!” Max lectured, coming to clap the young vampyré on the shoulder. The other flinched and rubbed at the already healing wound located a few inches below Max’s hand. “Fear not, we shall make a fine fighter of you yet.”