The Vampire Debt

by Ali Winters

  I expect him to be back any second, but time passes. I look out the window to the soot-covered town below. The stone of the buildings is dark and covered in patches of some type of lichen. It looks nearly identical to Littlemire, with small differences in the layout of streets and placement of shops.

  The edge of dawn slices across the horizon, a thin line of molten gold, stark against the deep blue sky. Demons cry, wailing as they are chased into hiding once more by the sun.

  I wait and wait… and wait.

  I have nothing left to do, other than to spend time with my thoughts. I had promised Kitty I would kill him and return to her. I had promised myself I would kill him.

  Then again, I am dead anyway. I don’t know when or how… but I won’t let him decide, I will take fate into my hands as much as I'm able.

  I look around for a weapon, only finding the fire poker. Not ideal, too large to hide, but I wrap my fingers around the handle anyway.

  The door creaks open, and I spin to face him.

  Calmly, he closes the door and crosses the room, stopping before me. His gaze flicks to his folded shirt on the chair then back to me. The red that earlier ringed his irises is gone.

  “Don’t bother.”

  The way he practically dares me with his arrogant smirk and overly confident words is too tempting to resist. I have killed one of them, and I will gladly do it again, and again, and again until the world is free of these cruel monsters.

  I lift my arm and thrust the poker at his heart.

  Mr. Devereaux adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves without looking up.

  “Stop,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it echoes in my head painfully.

  My arm is frozen, outstretched, the iron tip of the poker only an inch away from piercing his flesh. I try to pierce his heart, but my body doesn’t move.

  What the fuck is happening?

  The vampire lifts his head and meets my gaze.

  He sidesteps the poker, then slowly, oh so slowly, he lifts a hand and guides my arm to the side. His fingers graze down my arm to my hand. The way he moves is like a dance. Controlled. Graceful.

  Swift as lightning he grips the weapon and wrenches it from my grasp, then tosses it across the room where it clanks against the dusty wood flooring.

  I can’t move. My body is frozen in place, no matter how hard I struggle against this invisible hold.

  He takes one step closer, then another, until his chest is mere inches away from mine. I can only stare into the midnight blue depths of his eyes.

  The backs of his knuckles graze my skin as he pushes my hair off my shoulder. His fingers splay over my neck from my jaw to my collarbone. With the slightest amount of pressure from one finger, he tilts my head back and leans in.

  The warmth from his breath caresses my skin as he draws his face close to mine. I swallow hard, my heart thumping wildly against my ribs. The ruby ring reappears around his irises, and his fangs descend.

  His mouth hovers over the crook of my neck, warm breath caressing my skin. I wait for the sting of his fangs to press down.

  “You will end up dead sooner rather than later if you do not learn your place.” He speaks slowly, his face hovering over mine. I feel his threat down to the marrow of my bones.

  His eyes drift lower, pausing on my mouth. I can practically feel his lips on mine and something to coils in my gut at his nearness.

  Then he releases me, stepping back. He’s looking at me as though I burned him. In a blink, the expression is gone and I’m not sure I imagined it.

  He looks at the shirt I slept in, folded on the chair, then picks it up, tossing it into the fireplace as he passes me.

  Well, I suppose that makes his feelings toward me more than clear if he feels the need to burn something just because I wore it for a few hours. It’s fine with me if I disgust him—the feeling is mutual.

  Glowing red flashes in his eyes, circling his irises. In a clipped tone that once again vibrates in my mind, he says, “Come.”

  My body moves forward, stiff and awkward despite my attempts to fight his command.

  “Let me go,” I grit through my teeth.

  He pauses mid-stride and glances over his shoulder to give me a doubtful look, then keeps walking. Bastard.

  I stop fighting the force, compelling me to move forward, and my movements become slightly less stilted. I am still his puppet. Mr. Devereaux's hold on me doesn’t lessen as we make our way downstairs and outside to the waiting carriage.

  After climbing in after him, I expect the carriage to take off immediately, but a few minutes later, a thump of something substantial being hoisted rattles the outside.

  My body feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to me—it’s wrong.

  “Let me go,” I say again, though this time my voice lacks the strength I tried to imbue my words with.

  “So you can attempt to kill me again?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  Instead of responding further, he leans back against the seat across from me and closes his eyes.

  “What did you do to me?” I whisper.

  He doesn’t speak or move for a long moment, then he opens one eye and peers at me.

  “I compelled you.” My body shakes as I struggle against it. “Don’t even try to fight it… You can’t.”

  Why do I get the feeling that he has more to say?

  Gradually I feel his hold on me loosen. I can move my fingers, my toes, then my legs and arms, and finally, even my spine is mine once more.

  I stare at him.

  Is he… is he asleep?

  He might have removed all weapons from my reach, but he is a fool if he thinks he is safe around me for a second.

  Hours pass and the carriage continues at the same pace, even over the worst of the roads—the wheels bouncing in the deep grooves.

  I watch the angles of the shadows shorten, then lengthen in the opposite direction as the sun begins to set.

  His face has gone slack. He looks far younger right now than when he’s awake. A lock of hair has fallen over his brow.

  “Don’t ever do that to me again,” I say eventually.

  He blinks open his eyes and looks at me as though he had forgotten I was even here. Then his features harden into the unforgivable mask I am used to. I half expect the compulsion to return to grip me, but it doesn’t.

  “What did you expect when you agreed to pay the debt? Did you think being beholden to a vampire would be romantic?” he asks mockingly.

  “No.”

  “You’re not one of those pathetic worshippers, are you?” he asks with disgust.

  At first, I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but then I remember the girl back at the inn, red staining the collar of her white dress. I shudder.

  “Would you like to be fed upon day by day until you slowly wither away to nothing?” He leans forward, a mixture of seduction and deadly predator.

  “No,” I say. Only this time it comes out as a whisper.

  A sinister smile forms on his full lips. “Unfortunately, what becomes of you at this point has nothing to do with what you do or do not wish to happen. You are not in control of your fate, and the sooner you realize that the better off you will be.”

  I clench my fists in my lap, gripping the material of my trousers until my knuckles go white. He notices before I can force myself to relax and gives me an unamused look.

  “You would do well to learn to control your temper.”

  “Go fuck a demon,” I snap.

  The corner of his mouth ticks up as if I amuse him. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and meets my glare with one of his own.

  “You will never win.” Red seems to flare in his eyes.

  I sit up straighter, determined to not back down. My heart pounds furiously.

  He reaches forward and wraps his fingers around my wrist. I’m too stunned at first to rip my arm away. He will feed on me.

  Before I can even open my mouth, he say
s, “Sleep.”

  That strange vibration to his words scrapes against my mind, and I know he compelled me again. I fight as hard as I can, but still, my eyelids grow heavy, and my body relaxes against my will just as the darkness sets in.

  Chapter Ten

  Clara

  “Miss Valmont,” a distant voice calls to me.

  My mind and body feel heavy. I try to stir but can’t summon the energy to move or respond.

  “Clara? You need to wake up,” the voice calls again, this time closer.

  I blink up at the pale face hovering above me. It’s dark. Is it already night?

  The face frowns down at me though I can’t think of why. I can’t seem to focus on who… my eyes drift closed again.

  I’m so tired.

  My brain is sluggish, my thoughts muddled and scattered.

  “I know,” the voice says sharply. It must belong to the face.

  Is he talking to me? What were we talking about? Where…

  Something cool caresses my face.

  “Clara,” the voice says my name again.

  This time when I open my eyes, I manage to keep them open. Slowly his features sharpen into a distinct, handsome face. Dark blue eyes, the color of the twilight sky, hold secrets I could never hope to learn, a sharp jaw, and lips that beg to be kissed.

  His brows pinch together. He looks worried… I wonder why. I lift my hand and press my fingers against his forehead, trying to smooth them, but he catches my wrist.

  There’s a noise I can’t quite make out. Reluctantly, almost as if it pains him, the man lifts his head. “I know. You don’t have to keep telling me.”

  My head lists to the side, though from this angle, I still can’t see who he’s talking to outside.

  When he returns his attention to me, I see a flicker of something. The thought hovers at the edge of my mind. There is a faint sense of familiarity about him.

  “Clara, can you sit up?” he asks.

  I think about it for a moment before nodding my head. If I actually can or not remains to be seen.

  The longer I retain consciousness, the more strength returns to my muscles. I manage to get one arm under me, and he helps support me with my other.

  As soon as I’m sitting, he moves across from me.

  I take in my surroundings. We’re in a moving carriage, the inside is luxurious but simple. I look from the gold accents to his face several times as things slowly click into place.

  Vampire. What in the Otherworld was I thinking? My eyes drift to his lips again before I can stop myself. I look away, focusing on his impeccable cravat. Is that the same one he was wearing a little while ago?

  “What did you do to me?” I demand, my voice raw and dry. A pounding throbs at my temples from the effort.

  “You’ve been asleep.”

  Pain so sharp pain clenches at my middle that I almost bow over. I’m… famished. “For how long?”

  Just as I think he won’t answer me, he says, “Two days.”

  I look up at him. “Two…”

  Now the slightest bit of fear moves in. With one word, he kept me unconscious for two days. He could have killed me… so why hadn’t he? And—the carriage is moving.

  “When did we start moving again?” I must be more out of it than I thought. I press the heel of my palms into my eyes.

  “We never stopped.”

  I look at him. He is insane if he thinks I’m going to believe that lie. Even in my current state, I know he was talking to someone outside. But it’s not important. He can keep his secret. I’m about to say as much when my stomach growls embarrassingly loud.

  “Are you hungry, Clara?” he asks, and if I’m not mistaken, he sounds almost repentant. As well he should for keeping me unconscious for so long. I also realize he called me Clara, not Miss Valmont.

  I eye him suspiciously, not sure how to take his shift in attitude. “I haven’t eaten in over two days… so yes, Mr. Devereaux, I am.”

  Ignoring my anger, he reaches for a small package at his side and hands it to me.

  I take it and unwrap it. Inside is a chunk of bread, a few pieces of cheese, and some cured meat. The irony of this situation is not lost on me. He most likely thinks this is the worst meal he could offer up, but I don’t know the last time I had cheese or bread that wasn’t so stale it needed to be soaked in broth to be edible.

  I’m not sure where this came from. Perhaps he stopped while I was unconscious. I take a bite of each and nearly groan. Of course, I’m so hungry that it could be worse and I would still eat it greedily.

  When I finish, I am feeling far more myself again.

  It’s dark. It must be the middle of the night by now. The mournful cry of demons is thick in the air, surrounding us from all sides. I wrap my arms around myself as if that could ward them off.

  “They will not harm us,” he says, noticing my nerves.

  “What about the driver?”

  “He, too, will be fine.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. There are no lights anywhere outside. We must be miles from the nearest town. “Will we be stopping tonight?”

  “No. We will be reaching the estate soon.”

  The rest of our ride is passed in silence until the carriage pulls up a long, tree-lined drive. I will be glad to get out of this carriage. I feel as though I might lose my mind if I have to spend much more time sitting in this confined space.

  The carriage jostles to a halt, then a few seconds tick by before the loud squeal of heavy iron gates sound as they swing open. A few more seconds lapse, then we lurch forward once more.

  The trees give way to a large expanse of land with a lake to the south corner of the property. A palatial manor, grander than anything I’ve ever seen or could have imagined, rises up like a spiny beast against the night sky.

  We follow the curve around the massive fountain to the front steps. The doors open, letting out a soft flood of light as three figures, one man and two women, come walking out and lining up the steps, waiting for their master.

  The second we come to a stop, Mr. Devereaux opens the carriage door and steps out. He doesn’t offer me a hand, and I don’t expect one. Not even from someone who comports themselves in a typically gentlemanly manner.

  My muscles are decidedly less sore this time. And at least I’m not soaked to the bone in cold river water.

  The three figures that had come to greet us stand with perfect posture, eyes downcast, and hands clasped in front of them. He walks up the steps, knowing I’ll follow. As he passes each one, they greet him with a bow and a, “Welcome home, Master.”

  Four servants total, counting the driver… I’ve never seen so many belonging to one household—one, possibly two, for the most elevated families back home.

  I, of course, might as well be a specter, unseen by the living. He doesn’t introduce me, and why should he? I am nothing more than a food source for him for whenever he feels like it.

  I will count myself lucky if I don’t end up in some deep underground layer of the manor, forgotten and left to starve to death.

  Inside, most of the candles are not lit except for two candelabras and a handful of single candlesticks… all lit with sweet-smelling wax candles. Not the acrid scent of tallow candles the rich use back home, and not the inadequate rushlights we use.

  The floors and wainscoting are all dark mahogany wood, polished to look as if there’s a thin layer of glass over it. Area rugs and runners are strewn in just the right spots with intentional perfection. Heavy drapes are pulled to the side along all the windows, letting in the moon's pale light.

  It takes me a moment to notice the wallpaper in the foyer, it’s a simple cream color with a subtle damask pattern made in glittering threads woven into it that shimmer in the candlelight. The effect is so muted I almost miss it.

  I can’t tell if he chose something like this because he doesn’t care or because he dislikes the bold contrasting colors and stark lines and floral patterns that are so popular.
<
br />   In the drawing room, a large fire roars, casting warmth and a bit of light into the hall.

  He lifts a candelabra and hands me a single candlestick from it. Soft murmurs float toward me as the servants disappear. Except one. I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She hovers a few feet away, barely noticeable, she can’t be much older than me.

  Mr. Devereaux seems to notice and makes a point to dismiss her as well.

  “Follow me,” he says, pulling my attention back to him. And there’s nothing for me to do other than to oblige him.

  We walk through the halls of the manor that is nearly a castle in its own right. For the most part, he is silent, only bothering to point out how to get to the kitchen and a few other rooms. We skip the entirety of the southern wing of the manor.

  To my relief, he leads me upstairs to the second floor and not down into some horrid underground place. He passes a staircase and says nothing.

  It’s pitch black up there, and the light from my measly candle doesn’t even come close to piercing it.

  “What’s up there?” I ask.

  He stops in his tracks but doesn’t retrace his steps. “That is not for you,” he says in clipped tones. “Stick to the places I have shown you. No others, especially up there.”

  When he resumes walking, I notice two large double doors, unlike any others we have passed.

  “What about that room?”

  He stops again with an exasperated sigh and looks at the doors as though he had somehow missed them. “That is the library. You may go there…” He looks me up and down. “…if you don’t prove to be distracting.”

  A library. Since I was old enough to read, I’ve only had the one book, but behind those intricately carved doors lies an endless selection for me to choose from—

  I stumble back as something flies past my face and lands on Mr. Devereaux’s shoulder.

  “What disgusting demon sent creature is that?” I ask, pointing at it.

  He frowns at me as he reaches up to stroke its head as it clings to him. It’s a bat. It’s a fucking bat—small and black with leathery wings and large red eyes—and he’s petting it. It chirps and squeaks in my direction.