by Lund, S. E.
He clears his throat. “When I was sixteen, I drove a truck while I was drunk and got in an accident. My license was taken away. I drove without a license anyway. When I was eighteen, I helped steal a shipment of clothes from a warehouse and sold them to a fence.”
I shake my head. “More recent. Since the plague.”
“Since the plague, I have stolen food and supplies from several grocery stores. I broke into a home and took it over when the owners left. I—”
“This is taking too long.” Blackstone grabs the man by the neck with one hand, the man’s chin in his other hand. “Tell her why you’ve been arrested.”
When Blackstone releases him the man coughs and clears his throat.
“We broke into a shelter and took their food. We—”
“What did you do?” Blackstone demands, his voice a growl. “Forget what the others did. What did you do personally?”
“I,” he says, his voice low as if he’s embarrassed to admit it. “I had sex with a woman…”
“Not sex,” Blackstone says, his voice firm, a hard edge of anger in it. “Tell the truth.”
The man squeezes his eyes shut. “I forced her.”
“In front of her child?”
The man nods.
“Say it out loud for all of us to hear.”
The man swallows, his fear visible. “I forced her in front of her child.”
“And then what?”
The man hesitates, licks his lips. “I held her down while the others had her as well.”
“And what shape was she in when you left?” Blackstone walks around the man, his hands clasped behind his back like some medieval inquisitor.
“I don’t know—”
“Don’t lie to me. What shape was she in?”
The man shakes his head. “Unconscious.”
“And the child?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “He was screaming and I hit him…”
“Stop,” I say and hold up my hand. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
I wipe tears off my cheeks. The man’s story can’t help but arouse hatred in me. Maybe enough hatred that I can kill him and drink him dry. I pause, thinking this has all been orchestrated so very carefully to accomplish just that.
I go to the man, who looks terrified. He’s a foot taller than me and much heavier. I honestly don’t know how to do it. I turn to Dylan and find him looking at me with a horrified expression. He mouths some words and I can hear them despite how quietly he speaks.
“I’m so sorry…”
But I’ve already forgiven him.
“How do I do it?” I ask, turning towards Blackstone.
Our eyes meet and he nods as if he understands. He picks up a chair from the table and brings it over to where I stand. He places it beside me and motions to the rapist “Sit.”
The man obeys, but I can tell he’s terrified. He can’t help but comply with Blackstone’s orders, but he’s fully aware of what’s happening.
The mother was aware of what was happening to her as well. But is my killing him really just punishment?
I stand in front of him and hesitate. “Have you ever killed anyone?”
The man nods. “A pharmacist. When we stole their oxycodone. I didn’t mean to, but he resisted…”
“There,” Blackstone says, as if he’s won some kind of bet. “See, Eve? He doesn’t deserve to live. Taking advantage of a woman, killing someone for drugs. This should be easy for you, even if you weren’t a vampire and needed blood to survive.”
“It still isn’t easy,” I say, and it isn’t. Even knowing the man is a murderer and rapist.
“Yes, your human morals are still fresh in your soul. Give yourself a few centuries and they’ll fade. Now, go behind him and drink him dry. Don’t lie to me and tell me you haven’t desired to sink your teeth into human flesh and feel blood run in your mouth. Every vampire has. It’s our curse, to have all this power and the gift of immortality but to desire human blood more than anything else.”
I can’t lie. I have desired it. Every single day since I became a vampire, I’ve desired human blood, craving the feel of my teeth breaking warm skin, the blood gushing into my mouth, almost choking me with its rush. Biting Julien and Michel have been substitutes, but there’s something about the thought of biting a human that makes me weak and breathless the way I am when filled with sexual desire.
I tilt the man’s head to the side, baring the flesh beneath his ear. I can almost see the blood rushing in the vein, smell the blood through his skin. This close to a human, I feel the pull of bloodlust despite having enjoyed two glasses of blood at the dinner table.
I bite down hard and am immediately lost to it, my desire for blood overwhelming my human morality. I barely hear the man’s gasp of pain when my teeth rip into his flesh, his heartbeat so loud in my ears I can’t focus on anything else.
While I drink, we connect and I sense his fear, his horror, for he didn’t really believe that monsters roamed the earth. He thought it was all a story to keep people in line. He never imagined that a beautiful young vampire, a woman, would be the one to take his life, always thinking he would die in a shootout with police.
I drink, unaware of how much or how fast, until my stomach is full and I feel gorged. I pull back, my mouth covered in blood, and gasp for breath. The man slumps in the chair, his head thrown back, his eyes still open, but only slits. I can hear his heart even now, beating fast, thready and weak, for he has far too little blood. He’s close to death, but not quite.
“Finish him off,” Blackstone says, his hands on his hips. There’s a gleam in his eyes, almost lustful, as if he gets off seeing a new vampire with their first kill.
“I can’t,” I say, barely able to speak, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. “I feel like I’ve had too much.”
I go to my chair and sit, leaning my head on the table as I feel something similar to post-coital bliss overwhelm my other senses.
“You can never have too much, Eve.”
I raise my head and watch as Blackstone finishes the job, taking the man’s head in his hands and biting down on the other side of his neck. It takes him barely a minute to kill the man. He would have died even if Blackstone hadn’t bitten him, but it would have taken a while, and his blood would be wasted, spilled on the floor.
Blackstone pushes the man’s dead body over so that it falls with a heavy thump on the floor. He takes out a kerchief and wipes his own mouth, but there’s barely any blood on it.
“Are you satisfied now?” I say, unable to keep my revulsion for what I’ve done out of my tone. “I killed on your command. Bring my father up.”
Blackstone sits in his chair and leans back, a satisfied expression on his face. “You enjoyed it,” he observes. “I can tell. But you hated it all the same. I’ll only be truly satisfied when you kill on my orders and without guilt, but that will come with time.”
He watches me for a moment, and I meet his gaze, our eyes locked together. I don’t pull away even when I feel his amusement at my forwardness.
He smiles. “As to your father, he’ll be brought up later this evening. I’ll call you back when he’s ready.”
He waves his hand in dismissal so I stand up to leave. My legs are still a bit wobbly so Dylan helps me, one arm around my waist.
I glance back when we’re at the door and see Blackstone holding out his glass for more blood while the guards pull the dead body away from the table. The other two captive humans stand mute, their eyes still focused on the floor. I wonder how long before they’re both dead.
A servant bends closer and pours the thick red liquid into the crystal glass in Blackstone’s hand. Blackstone catches my eye before I’m able to leave and in his expression is gloating triumph.
I can’t wait to see Dylan wipe that look from his face when his dagger thrusts deep into Blackstone’s chest.
Chapter 91
“Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the
flowers are dead.”
Oscar Wilde
“Where should we go?” Dylan asks as we walk down the hall.
I shake my head, tears of anger and remorse for killing the man wet on my cheeks. “I need air.”
Dylan helps me outside and together we sit on the retaining wall that surrounds the patio. I take in a deep breath, the chill of the night air refreshing me. Dylan removes his jacket and places it around my shoulders, but I’m so full of fresh blood that I feel too warm and I push it away.
“I’m fine.”
Dylan nods in understanding and puts his jacket back on. “I remember my first kill,” he says, his voice soft. “She wasn’t a criminal, Eve. Just an unlucky human. Don’t hate yourself.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I hate him. I hate Soren.”
“Good. Keep that anger fresh in your mind. Use it to help you comply while we wait. We will kill them both, Eve,” Dylan says and I can hear the edge of anger in his voice. “We will.”
I sigh and stare up at the black sky. The moon is rising in the distance, its orb almost full.
All of a sudden, I miss the twins so much I ache. I want to go back to them both and forget everything else. I want to live on the beach with them, one after the other. Nothing but us and the sand and surf and night sky. But I can’t forget everything. My father is being cleaned and dressed so I can see him. Blackstone is no doubt making plans to send me on a mission to help Soren resurrect the Twelve and calm the masses so they’re more compliant with Dominion. When he has an effective nanovirus—one that they’re assured will destroy Soren and the Twelve—we’ll make our move.
Blackstone must know that, for Michel, it will be real. Michel will do what he can to save as many souls as he thinks possible while formulating a plan to fight Blackstone, restore the Council, and enforce the Treaty.
I know that will be his only goal. Michel doesn’t want Dominion. Everything he does is calculated to see its end, of that I can be sure. It’s the only thing I can hold on to, besides the twins’ love for me. The only hope I have left besides my father recognizing me and my parents—and Dylan’s parents—being freed.
* * *
An hour passes. We speak in soft voices about what has come to pass since we met. It’s when we’re discussing Soren that a guard opens the door, casting a wide shaft of light from the interior onto the patio where we sit in the darkness.
“My Lord Blackstone will see you now.”
I turn to Dylan and he takes my hand and squeezes.
“Give your father time to remember you,” Dylan says. “It’s been ten years and you’re a grown woman now. Remember that you were only a little girl when he last saw you.”
I nod and together we follow the guard inside. We take now-familiar hallways to the study where I met with Blackstone earlier. I scan the occupants for my father and finally recognize him. He is far thinner than I remember, and smaller, but perhaps that’s the result of me growing up and him shrinking from his disease. His hair is shorn now, almost to his scalp, and shot through with gray. His face is sallow, his skin marked by age spots and wrinkles even though he’s only in his forties.
He doesn’t look up when I enter the room. Instead, he remains cowering in a chair beside Blackstone’s, his body curved in on itself like before, as if he’s trying to disappear.
He looks mad.
“Father?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Eve.”
I step closer and bend down, trying to meet his eyes, but he turns his head this way and that to avoid me. I kneel in front of his chair, trying to catch his eye that way, but he closes his eyes. Is he afraid to make eye contact with anyone?
“Daddy,” I say, my voice pleading. “Daddy, don’t you remember me? It’s Eve. Your daughter.”
He whines as if he feels pain and squirms in his chair, twisting like he wants to escape me. I touch his knee and he jerks it away from my hand as if my touch burns.
It’s no use. He’s clearly not there. This man isn’t the father I knew and loved. He doesn’t recognize me and shrinks farther and farther away from me the closer I get. I give up, covering my mouth with a hand to hold back my tears. I catch Dylan’s eyes and he shakes his head, then he pulls me into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. He pulls me over to a sofa and we sit together.
My father twists and turns in his chair. He obviously can’t get comfortable, and he’s squinting like the room is too bright for his eyes.
“Now that you’re here, Eve,” Blackstone says, as if my attempt to communicate with my father isn’t important, “play the piano for us. I’ve heard Dylan rave about your talent. Play something by Chopin. Dylan says he’s your favorite composer.”
A grand piano sits in the corner of the room by the huge window, but I don’t want to play. Yet I have sworn to obey Blackstone without hesitation or question. I want my father to be cared for properly until I can determine if he can ever come back to me, so I stand reluctantly and make my way to the piano.
I play an arpeggio to get my hands warmed up, followed by some scales. Finally, I pause with my hands poised over the keys, uncertain what to play, not wanting to play anything.
“Play Chopin. Ballade No. 1,” Dylan says. “It’s my favorite.”
I sigh and start to play. The introduction is slow and dark, the melody somber. I watch my father, and if he recognizes the piece, he doesn’t show it. He sits still, his arms wrapped around his body, his head down. He looks like a frightened animal held captive and completely focused inward. But when I get to the end of the first section, as the tempo increases and the sound reaches a crescendo, he frowns and I can tell he’s listening.
Does he finally remember, at least the music? This was his favorite piece and I play it with as much passion as I can muster, pouring all my emotions into the performance. When I come to the first change in tempo, the music soft, light, dreamy, he lifts up his head.
He’s listening. He still doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s finally present in the moment.
The piece is so beautiful, especially the middle section, the meno mosso. It’s my favorite part of the piece, the touch so light, so soft. Then it’s back to the main theme and I see him sit up straight. He’s truly listening now.
My heart is in my throat. I’m torn between playing and rushing over to him to try to make him recognize me again, but for now I play, my hands flying over the keys as I move through the complex chords and progressions.
I come to the part that I find most difficult—the part that Julien forced me to learn all those months back when I was in his loft in Boston. I’m glad now that I did practice for it was here where I stopped when I was a child, when my mother died and I was torn from my father as he sank into madness.
Tears fall from my eyes and I don’t care. Maybe the music will remind him who he is and break through the walls he’s built around himself to keep the world out.
I finish and wipe my eyes. If he knows who I am, he doesn’t show it. But he’s no longer coiled up with his arms twisted around himself. He’s sitting like a normal person, his eyes fully open, alert at least to the music. I rise from the piano and run to him, kneeling down once more, trying to catch his eye, but he frowns and looks away.
“Daddy!” I cry, my heart breaking from dashed hope. “It’s me, Eve. Your daughter!”
Nothing.
He starts to close up again, the moment gone. I rest my head on his knee and he tries to pull away, apparently horrified to be touched.
He doesn’t know me. Some part of his brain remembered the music, but that’s all. I cry, covering my face with my hands, until Dylan finally comes over and pulls me up, wrapping his arms around me and rocking me while I weep.
I push Dylan away and rush at Blackstone, not thinking, only feeling so much pain and sheer hatred that I don’t care anymore. I reach him before he can respond and try to strike him, my fists searching for his face. He grabs my hands before I can even touch him, holdi
ng them firm while I struggle, my eyes blurred with tears.
He does nothing but hold me still while I twist and turn, trying to free myself. Soon, I give in and stop fighting as he holds me there, imprisoned in his steel-like grip, and I cry without caring that he’s watching me, his face only inches away from mine.
I weep, my sobs loud, but in his face I see no anger. I see patience and even understanding. He finally releases my hands and I stand there with my palms covering my face. I’m no match for him and I know it. I could never kill him using my own measly powers as an Adept vampire.
I can’t even daywalk.
“I didn’t do this to him, Eve,” Blackstone says.
“Then who did?” I ask between sobs. “Who did this to him?”
“Ask your beloved Michel.” With that, Blackstone leaves, a guard trailing behind him.
“What do you mean?!” I shout after him.
He stops and glares at me. “You think so highly of your precious Michel. You love him. But perhaps he’s the one who has told you more lies than anyone. Certainly I’ve only ever told you the truth.”
Before he goes through the door, he turns to the guard standing over my father. “Take him to his room. She can see him if she wants.”
Then Blackstone leaves.
I turn to Dylan, wiping my eyes on the backs of my hands. “What does he mean by that?”
Dylan shrugs. “He’s playing with your mind, Eve. I doubt he’s telling you the truth. Michel loves you. I don’t like him much, but I know he loves you.”
The guard puts his arm under my father’s and lifts him up.
“I’ll help,” I insist, taking my father’s other arm.
My father acknowledges neither of us. He merely stares straight ahead and lets us lead him down the hallway to a set of stairs and then to the upper floor. We practically carry him down the hallway, Dylan trailing behind us, and into a room on the left with a huge canopy bed and a window facing the grounds.
I point to the wing chair by a fireplace and the guard and I lead him there. He sits without protest, his face blank, eyes staring straight ahead. I take a blanket from the bed and cover his legs with it, tucking it in around him, for the massive room is cold.