He swept a hand outward in a parody of a gentlemanly manners. “So…what was your name? Rebecca? Don’t scream, Rebecca. Because that’s annoying. We’ve already got Cassandra, who’s prone to wail on like life is a Greek tragedy. The house can’t take any more screaming.” He waited for a response.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Yes? Don’t you mean ‘no’? I said ‘no screaming.’”
I blinked in confusion. “Yes, I understand, my Lord. I won’t scream,” I said, and the last word was half-squeak.
“Fair enough. Now, get in.”
I hesitated and he sighed. He looked pointedly at my arm, as if deciding the best place to get a grip on it when he ripped it off my body. He raised his hand, and I jerked forward, stumbling into the cell, the corners pitch-black and the rest all shadows and dim, dim light. The single bulb outside the gate was too far away to do me much good. I squinted, peering around me myopically to see what was where. He closed the cell door, and I whirled back to face him, but he was already starting up the steps.
“Wait! Please!”
He settled the key back on its nail, then turned back, scrubbing one hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “Now, you called Lee, right? Because he’s the one who’s going to come let you out. She’ll forget all about you.” A sigh. “This Richard-dying problem will occupy her mind for a great while, I fear. And I, well, I couldn’t care less about you. And I don’t live here. So, I won’t be back for you…but as long as you’re sure that phone worked,” he said, letting the threat dangle before me, “you’ll be out of here in no time.” His smile was so kind, so terrifying in faux-sympathy, that I was momentarily speechless. He started to whistle.
“You’re implying I might die down here? If you forget or if I did it wrong?” I said, close to a shout.
He looked annoyed. “Well, yes. But that’s the point of an implication. It’s not overt. You just made it overt. Good heavens,” he said, and turned, heading up the stairs.
“Wait. Wait, please. I don’t know anything. I came to help. And the phone, I—
“Light on or off?” he asked, as though I weren’t talking. “Let’s do off. I find electricity to be such a harsh light.”
And then it was dark. However bad it was going to be before, now, with no light at all, it would be unbearable. “No! Please, no! Please turn the light on, Lord Dalmaine. I beg you! I beseech you, please!” I jerked hard on the bars, and they didn’t move at all. There wasn’t even a rattle, the cage was so sturdy. I kept begging, pleading, letting him hear my desperation, but he closed the door behind him, the darkness suddenly absolute, worse than I could have imagined.
It hadn’t occurred to me that it could be so very black. Even on an island in the middle of the ocean, where electricity was a novelty, it had never been so dark.
I heard the lock click outside and I was alone. In a dungeon. And I knew I was going to die.
8
I don’t want to write about that time. Not really. And what purpose would it serve? If this chronicle is truly for me, then I don’t need to mention it, since the best thing that could happen would be to forget the whole thing!
And if it isn’t just for me, if someone else might read this recounting of my life, well….how do you describe Hell for someone else to understand? I think it’s impossible. And when one has survived it, why go back to it? Mentally, I mean. Because I would think that once you’ve escaped something awful, that the mind would want to forget it and focus on the good times.
That’s not me, apparently.
Maybe it’s a form of therapy. Reliving it to try and make it less crippling. Because I still dream about it, I still hear the rats in the dark, I still hear my voice, hollow and begging, I still feel my hands bleeding from banging to get anyone’s attention. How was it in the dungeon?
Dark.
Black.
Destruction.
Totality.
Quiet.
Death.
The absoluteness of one word answers.
Because Lord Marchant didn’t show up the next day or the day after that. Five days. That’s how long I was down there before Lord Dalmaine or Cassandra remembered me. I don’t remember the door opening or him coming into the dungeon. I don’t remember him opening the door or carrying me out. All I remember is waking up in a bedroom.
The windows were open, sheer white gauzy curtains lightly billowing in the breeze. I heard the ocean crashing on the rocks below, saw a seagull in the cloudless blue sky, felt the sun on my hand where it came slashing in through the window. The sheets were soft, white, and ironed, smelling of lavender. It took me a moment to orient myself and accept the fact that I was not only alive but safe.
Probably. I wasn’t back in my narrow bed at the infirmary, with Hetty close by. I was clearly in an Infinite’s home. The luxury of my surroundings was too impressive to belong to a human.
And I was still alive.
But there was no reason to believe I would stay that way. I didn’t move. Just in case. I listened hard, but between the ocean, the breeze snapping the curtains, and the birds outside, it was difficult to tell if there was someone else breathing in the room. I tried to feel for someone, hoping I had some primordial survival instinct that would let me know if danger was at my back.
Nothing.
The room was large and the ceilings high. There was a book on the bedside table but I couldn’t see the title…frighteningly, there was a bookmark in it, which made me think this might be someone’s room rather than a spare. And worst of all was a little ivory box, vines and flowers intricately carved into it, that was so close I could reach out and touch it. I knew what a box like that was for.
“You’re awake,” a man said, and the recognition of Lord Marchant’s voice slid through me like liquid sunlight. I wouldn’t die today. That was my thought. He was here, and he was the best of all of them, and with him watching over me I wouldn’t die. I clapped a hand over my mouth, trying to keep the sob of relief and fear inside of me.
Lord Marchant moved closer, coming into view as I pulled the sheet up high and sat up, my moves sluggish. He stopped a few feet away from the bed, consciously giving me space, the illusion of distance. I tried to smile at him, to convey my appreciation for being alive but he frowned, let his gaze wander the room as if he were bored.
“Am I…in your bed?”
Color washed over his cheeks.
I reached for the glass of water that sat on the table, noticing that it was not only full, but had ice in it. A luxury.
“Are you hungry?”
I shook my head, took a drink. I was alive!
“Why were you in my dungeon?” he asked, demanding my attention, shredding my cocoon of relief.
“You make it sound like I crept down there and locked myself in on purpose.”
A moment of silence. “Alistair apologizes.”
I choked and put the glass down on the table, water spilling as I coughed. There was no way he was sorry. “Lord Dalmaine seemed pretty content to leave me there to die,” I said, so annoyed I didn’t bother guarding my words. “He smiled at me as he did it.” The robe I was wearing gaped open and I closed it, hands fisted tight in the soft material. “Why am I wearing this?” The weave was impossibly fine. This was brought from the mainland.
“Your clothes were soiled,” he said blandly, and I felt totally mortified. Days of being in that dungeon. How filthy I must have been. “You are now clean and needed something to wear. I won’t risk the gossip by having your things sent here.”
I pushed myself up and rested against the headboard. I had the strangest feeling that I was floating. It wasn’t bad, but it was odd. Like being given too much wine on a feast day. Pleasantly floaty. “The phone worked.”
“It did. I came as soon as I could. But no one told me where you were until a few hours ago. You were lucky to be alive.”
“But I feel fine. A little…woozy maybe but that’s it. Fine. Better than fine,” I said, staring at him.
His brows rose, the only indication that he was even vaguely curious about how I felt. He paced away from me slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. His shirt was plain, open at the throat but unadorned, and he wore no vest or doublet. And his trousers were from the mainland, which was unusual. While the material was finer than what the mortal men wore to work, and a rather severe black, they were still more suited to a commoner than an Infinite. So much unadorned and untailored material! Why would he dress so simply?
Not that Lord Marchant needed fancy clothing to proclaim his rank. His status was a part of him, in his gracefulness and the way he held himself. His dark hair was slightly out of place from running his fingers through it.
He rubbed a hand along his jaw, covering his mouth as though he were a little uncertain about what to say next.
“I don’t feel right,” I said, and licked my lips, which were slightly numb. “Have I been given something?”
Lord Marchant sat on the bed, near my feet, still maintaining the illusion of distance. I laughed. “That doesn’t make me feel any safer. You could be on me in a moment.” The meaning of my words took a moment to register. What the hell did I say that for?
He appeared just as startled. His lips pressed into a hard line and I could see a small muscle jump near the corner of his jaw.
“I mean if you were going to attack me! You’re not fooling me into thinking I’m safe is what I meant.”
“Now you develop a care for your safety. How ironic,” he murmured.
I hate it when people use that word. I never quite know what it means. But his sarcastic tone gave it away. “I didn’t want to be in your dungeon. Your sister slaughtered her servants, a lot of them. Then she made me call you and they both brought me back, your sister screaming and inconsolable and Lord Dalmaine…I never understood why people built rafts and tried to leave but maybe I do now. I wonder how many of the people who die out there are your servants.” I wanted to ask him what the hell was wrong with him that he surrounded himself with such monsters. But he doesn’t, a snide part of me said, he leaves us here with the monsters.
But this was his friend, his family, and even in my foggy state I had enough self-preservation to keep my mouth shut. This was my better. I was a servant at best, disposable at worst. The look on his face snapped some sense into me. He was rigid, still, his dark eyes boring into me.
“I apologize, Lord Marchant,” I said, throwing back the covers. I scrambled out of his bed but stumbled, uncoordinated, my knee hitting the floor hard. I pressed my head against the floor to show how sorry I was for what I’d said. I had to be sensible. I dug my nails into my palms and bit my lip to keep from swearing as pain shot up my leg.
“This is wrong,” He stood and walked away from me, my breathing uneven as I waited for him to hurt me for the things I had said. I don’t know what possessed me. What made me forget for those brief moments everything I’d ever known. How to keep myself safe. “Don’t bow down to me or apologize. I know you’re a pawn in this. The wrong place at the wrong time. You…get up this moment!” he demanded, his voice a hiss.
I sat up, still shaky, not daring to look at him because he seemed so angry. He went to the window and stood there, looking out, keeping his face from me. Now I would say he was the one who was hiding. But I didn’t know him well enough then to understand what I was seeing. “You were near death,” he said, voice hollow.
I watched his back, the leanness of his torso visible through his shirt as he stood in the sun. He turned and even though I dropped my gaze, it wasn’t fast enough. He knew I was watching him. I took a deep breath, feeling that slithering heat go through me, settling down between my thighs. Lord Marchant. Leander. Lee. That’s what his friends and family called him. I imagined saying his name and then clenched my teeth tight, afraid I might suddenly say it aloud. I blushed. What was wrong with me? Why were my emotions changing from one minute to the next? How was it possible to go from rage to lust in a moment? From fear of death to recklessness within three breaths?
He sighed and I had a desperate fear that he knew how in awe of him I was. That maybe he knew absolutely everything I might ever think and feel. “You know our bite can be a death sentence. That our bite is diseased.”
Of course I did. He knew I did. Still it seemed he was waiting until I confirmed it. “Yes.”
“And you know that most of those diseases can be cured, if a human is given the correct medicines.”
“I do.”
He drummed his fingers against the window sill. Surely he wasn’t nervous? “In the outside world our kind are called ‘vampires.’ We are thought to be myths. And yet our reputation is…we are monsters of a sort. Like ghosts or demons. Witches.”
This shocked me. I looked around the room, as if I might see the trap. “Why are you telling me this?”
A corner of his mouth quirked up, like a sad smile over a memory long-gone. “Because of your continued fixation on me.” He didn’t even flush as he said it. What would it be like to be so confident of one’s desirability that one could comment on it without any trace of vanity or hesitancy? “I’m not trying to embarrass you, Miss Finner. I simply want it to be clear that what I tell you next, what I’ve done to you, it wasn’t because you’re special or because you’re feelings for me are in any way returned. You’re a young woman and I am a very, very old man. My sister wronged you and I tried to make it right as best I could.”
I bit back my first response, and the next several, because whatever I said would be deemed offensive or mortifying. In fact, as far as I could tell, the very best thing that could happen was for this conversation to end as soon as possible. So all I did was nod and wait.
He chuckled softly, darkly, the sound intensely masculine. “The look on your face is a comfort. I know a woman’s suppressed fury when I see it.”
“You really are a mind-reader,” I said, but it came out bitter. My fingers plucked at the silky robe. A far safer thing to contemplate than Lord Marchant.
“Miss Finner, I fed you my blood to save your life. My blood is clean of disease. I underwent a course of treatments in New York, and it shouldn’t sicken you or kill you. It simply healed you.”
I latched on to the most important word. “Shouldn’t?”
Now a hint of color washed into his angular cheeks. “In tests, my blood is clean. But the opportunity to test the theory hadn’t presented itself until now.”
Ouch. “I was an experiment…If you’d told me that at the beginning, I would have recognized how trivial I was to you. And you wouldn’t have needed to comment on my supposed feelings for you.”
A brow raise.
“How long ago did you feed me blood?”
“A few hours ago.”
I licked my lips, expecting to taste copper. His eyes flicked down to my mouth and away before he turned away from me, looking out the window again. I reached up and touched my lips, maybe expecting them to feel different, to have a memory. Was that why they felt a bit numb?
“I hope that the gravity of your situation is apparent. You were near death. If I had thought you would survive, I would have taken you to Hetty.”
Bullshit. “I don’t believe you.” He turned to face me, expression unreadable. “I think you were looking for an excuse to try out your cleansed blood.” I’m angry at the idea that he’d only saved me as an experiment. That even now I might become ill and die. “How long do you think I have, then? If you have some illness lingering inside of you…that you’ve now given to me. When will I have symptoms?”
He scrubbed a hand across his face, not looking at me directly. “Rebecca, you should be fine. I’m sorry you don’t believe me, that you think the worst—“
“Why would I think the worst of you if I worshipped you?”
His gaze snapped to mine. His mouth opened and closed.
“I spend all my days with victims that your kind makes. We are the rodents and you are the hawks. And your beautiful exteriors are just that.” I blame the blood
for what I did next, for it loosening my reserve, heightening my feeling, which were shame, anger, grief, and even lust for him. To be here in his bed, talking to him, maybe even because his blood was coursing through me, it made me reckless.
“Truly you are the most beautiful man to have ever existed,” I said, raking him up and down with my gaze. “If you were a human, a mere man, I would do anything I could to entice you. But you’re not a man, you’re a devil. Your sister is an abomination and a fixture of everyone’s nightmares, be they children or adults. I won’t think you saved me to be kind. I’m sure the apple can’t fall too far from the tree.” I laugh, miserably. “And I suppose it’s fitting that it was me you tried out your blood donation on, isn’t it? I already owe you, I’ve already been saved by you more times than I know. So if I die now, it won’t pain your conscience—“
“That’s not what I—“
“I want to get dressed and leave,” I said. And suddenly I thought of Hetty. Was she worried for me? Had she missed me?
“Miss Finner,” he snapped, his voice crisp and cold. “Never presume to know me. Giving you my blood is the last thing I want to do. You must make sure—”
“But you can presume to know me?”
He paced away from me and back. His voice was soft, perhaps apologetic. “You are vaccinated, Miss Finner. Most of what I carried wouldn’t have harmed you in the first place. But the treatments I’ve undergone have gone even further. Are you at risk from me? I suppose there is a chance. But you shouldn’t get more than a cold. My motives were not as calculating as you believe. I do not benefit from giving you my blood. Indeed, you must promise to tell no one about it.”
A seagull gave a long cry outside the window. The anger left me as abruptly as it came and I felt lightheaded, my hands trembling with the rush of adrenaline I’d gotten from arguing with him. Good heavens! I’d argued with Lord Marchant.
“Thank you for saving my life. I didn’t know your blood could heal.” It still seemed bizarre, since I’d only ever known it as a death sentence. “How did you do it? A cup?” I blushed as I asked. But the answer seemed important to me. Had he touched me? Put his skin to mine?
Remembered Page 8