“I’m all right, Flynn,” he mutters against my coat. The lie is so practiced—perfected over twenty-eight years—that it almost sounds true.
Chapter Seven
AN HOUR LATER, when the carriage man yells, “About there, sirs,” Edmund sits bolt upright and stares out the window. Before the carriage takes a slow right turn, I get a glimpse of it: Heavenhill. Christ Almighty, my sailor is rich. Flynn climbs onto my lap to get a better view as we pass lush bushes reshaped into careful spheres. The hedges are trimmed in a similarly geometric fashion, square on the sides. Finally, we see the house up ahead, and Flynn gasps.
I remember Edmund having a shocked response to the coven manse in New Orleans. He had asked if God lived there. It’s a wonder he would find our Southern architecture so divine when he grew up surrounded by this. The three-story mansion—or would this be a castle?—is made of light-red brick. Its front façade faces the road, surrounded by forward-facing wings on either side as if the house itself hopes to hug us. Several chimneys line the roof, and windows… there are so many windows.
“Sixty-four.”
“Hmm?” I ask.
“Windows. And I have stared longingly out all of them.”
The carriages pull to a stop, and I have to latch onto Edmund’s arm to stop him from barreling vampire speed into his family’s country estate. “Easy,” I command.
He nods in understanding.
I follow him out into the early evening gray. He doesn’t bother to button his coat as we approach the front door, already opening for us. A servant in a simple black suit stands by the door. He lowers his white-haired head at Edmund. “Your Grace.”
By the time we step into the massive foyer—Jesus, the entire house is made of marble and fine art—our group is reunited. We crowd around Edmund as a protective shield: Michelle, Felipe, Brien, Flynn, and myself.
High-pitched voices echo from what appears to be the parlor. A large black piano sits in the corner. Its polished veneer sparkles like diamonds. When I hear running feet, I want to shield my darling. I take a step closer to him and rest my hand on his lower back.
No panicked doctor appears. No jilted ex-lover who might mean Edmund harm. No, a tall woman with wild gray-brown hair rounds the corner in nothing but bedclothes and slippers. I recognize those blue-gray eyes immediately.
A young servant girl in a bonnet is close on her heels but freezes when she sees our troupe. “Madam, please, we have guests,” she begs.
“Oh.” The older lady smiles and appraises us. “Look at all the handsome men!”
“Mum?” Edmund’s voice shakes.
“Mum?” the woman repeats. She takes small, shuffling steps toward Edmund and stares up into his face. I watch the haze of confusion shift and move until she reaches out one lace-gloved hand to touch his cheek. “My boy?”
“Yes.” He takes her hand and kisses her palm. “Mum, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and pulls her hand away. “No. It can’t be. No, my boy is dead. They told me.”
“Wh-who told you?”
“Everyone.” She smiles, eyes wide and darting. “But you are welcome to stay as a ghost. I do enjoy the company.” She holds her skirts and swishes them around in grotesque parody of a little girl showing off her new gown. “My dear Edmund is quite dead, but I had thought his ghost might visit, so welcome, at last. Now, I must check on my tea. Someone has been drinking all the tea, and I am so thirsty.” She laughs loudly and takes off running back in the direction she came. The poor servant girl struggles to keep up.
Edmund’s breath shakes on an inhale, and he makes a sound I’ve never heard: something between a mumble and a sob. His shoulders lurch forward as he drops his chin to his chest. I don’t know what to say, what to do.
My uncertainty is cut short by the sound of a harsh female voice with a posh British accent. She sounds as though she speaks from above when she says, “So the devil returns.”
Edmund doesn’t bother wiping the tears from his face as he turns around. Halfway up the wide marble staircase stands a woman in a layered black gown as if in mourning. Her long hair, up in a bun, is a watered-down version of Flynn’s cherry red. Everything about her is pointed, from her nose to her chin to the long fingers that tap the dark wood banister.
He inclines his head to her. “Lady Patricia.”
“Your Grace.”
“You have no need to call me that.”
“I only do so in jest. With your return, you are now a duke, after all.” She takes a few steps down but remains even a head higher than me. “You’ve seen your mother.”
“What’s happened to her?”
“She’s gone mad.” The pointed woman smiles. “We are hiding her here in an effort to avoid the society papers. Madness is so unpopular. You would know.”
Before I can step forward to murder this creature, Edmund latches onto the back of my coat.
“Did you think she was sick? Dying?” Patricia folds her hands in front of her. “Apologies that you cannot yet profit from her death.”
“Christ, Patricia, I’ve had my own accounts since I was eighteen. I don’t need her money.”
She finally ignores Edmund and stares at the rest of us. “How nice for you, but what of your friends? Without a mansion at your disposal, I suppose they’ll leave you now.”
Michelle’s voice is strong and loud. “We are not with Edmund for his money. We are here because we love him.”
“Has he charmed you the way he charmed my husband?” She glares at Edmund. Her stare moves slowly from his legs up to his chest. I would say it was a look of lust if not for the disgust on her face. “It’s hard to imagine now. You were so much more delicate then. Easier for men to believe that sinful mouth belonged to a lovely lady.”
“I don’t want you in this house,” Edmund says.
“It is not your decision, child. I am your mother’s caretaker now. I never would have written to you, but that doctor felt it was his right to keep you informed. You will stay in the guest wing—you and your friends—and you will not stay long.”
I see Edmund’s silence not as agreement but as recognition of futility. There is no talking to this beast.
Before she disappears in the direction of Edmund’s mad mother, she pauses in front of us. She leans close to Edmund and whispers, “I pray every day that your soul will burn in hell.”
I’m so shocked by her vehemence, I don’t move. She leaves us, blessedly, and Edmund wipes his hand over his face. “Fucking welcome home.”
I clear my throat to quell the strange nausea Patricia’s mere presence inspired in me. “Could you give us a moment?” I speak to everyone but Edmund.
“Why don’t you sit in the parlor?” he offers our friends. “I’ll have someone get a fire started momentarily.”
I lean down and speak quietly. “Her husband?”
He rolls his eyes. “He was a baron I sucked off at a society party. Maybe I’ve mentioned him before. I was only seventeen, but he became obsessed. Our families were so close that Patricia found out, of course.”
I sort of want to shake him. “Damn it, Edmund, you could have been hung for buggery.”
“And incriminate her husband too? Strip his title, her title? Ruin their reputations? No, she wouldn’t dare.” He watches our friends poke and prod around his home. “I’ve always thought her continued relationship with my mother is her way of punishing me.”
“What happened to her husband?”
“He caught ill and died a year ago. Maybe two. I don’t remember. Mother wrote me with the news. Patricia probably said it was God’s judgment. Irony is she thinks she’s the most pious woman in Britain, and I’ve never met anyone less Christ-like.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with her.”
He squeezes my hand. “Getting a clear image of my life here yet?” I think he tries to jest, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m going for a quick ride.” He nods toward the parlor. “Would you give them my apologies
?”
I wish he would come away somewhere private where I could just hold him and kiss him for a while, but—
“Edmund?”
His head shoots up, and he squints at a little wisp of a woman in a bonnet and simple brown dress. “It can’t be. Hallie? You’ve grown up!”
“So have you.” She smiles, and although she isn’t overly pretty, she seems gentle, sweet. “What on earth have you done to yourself?”
“Uh…”
She laughs and extends her hand. “Come here.” Despite her small stature, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a hug. It’s not awkward or strained. It’s a comfortable hug between old friends, and Edmund sinks into her embrace with his eyes closed.
“I didn’t even know you were still working for my family.”
She pulls back but keeps her hands on his shoulders. “Well, my mother died a few years back, so I took over.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Head of the household now.” She reaches up and pulls one of his black curls. “Remember when we were kids, and I tried to braid your hair?”
“Yes, you tied it in knots. Your mother was furious.”
Hallie laughs quietly—the perpetual politeness of a lifelong servant. Then, she faces me. “Who is this, then?”
“Andrew.” Edmund grabs my hand and pulls me forward. “My beloved.”
I almost swallow my tongue.
Meanwhile, Hallie’s whole face lights up. “You’ve found someone? Oh, how wonderful, Edmund. I’m so happy for you.” She takes my free hand and shakes it. “Welcome, sir.” She turns back to Edmund. “I trust you’ll be needing only one bedroom then, you bad boy. I’ll set you up in the far room of the guest wing. Patricia won’t even notice, the cow.”
Edmund snorts and laughs.
“I’m very glad you’re back.” She bows her head to me. “And you, Andrew. I hope to hear of your adventures.”
Edmund leans down and kisses her cheek before she walks away, presumably to prepare our quarters.
I watch her diminutive form climb the steps. “She knows about you?”
“Yes. Always has.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I need to go to the stables. I’ll be but an hour.”
He doesn’t wait for my blessing. I amble into the parlor where another servant does indeed prepare a fire. The house is cold, but it has little to do with temperature. Soon after I sit, Michelle beckons me to the window. A heavy fog has descended, but I still make out a black horse and tall rider who race over the darkening green hills as though being chased.
IT’S HOURS BEFORE he comes back. Everyone else has already gone to bed, and I stand in one of Heavenhill’s sixty-four windows and stare into the black. In the reflection, our room is simple and cozy behind me. There’s a large bed and a number of blankets to protect against Britain’s damp cold. There are heavy pieces of furniture and golden candelabras. A servant brought a warm water basin earlier. I rinsed my face but did not further prepare for bed. I wait for Edmund.
I don’t turn when the bedroom door opens, but I smell whiskey.
“You’re still awake,” he says.
“Where have you been?”
He stumbles into the room and closes the door. “The village.”
“Why?”
I hear him wrestling with his coat. “Needed to get away.”
Now, I turn to face him. His hair is windblown, his eyes unfocused. “You’re drunk.”
“A bit.” He sits on the edge of the bed and tugs at his shoes.
When I step forward to help, I also smell blood and freeze. “You fed.”
“Just a friendly nibble.” He frowns. “Am I supposed to ask your permission first?”
“Don’t be an ass.”
He chuckles. “I get tired of it, you know—you treating me as your precious little pup.”
“I do no such thing.”
He laughs now. “God, you don’t even see it, do you? You treat me like a child when you’re not balls deep.” His shoes fall loudly to the floor.
“Well, when you behave like one…”
He shakily unbuttons his waistcoat. “I did fine without you.”
“Yes, because you ran away from your problems, as you did tonight. Your mother screamed when they put her to bed.”
“Fuck off.”
“She called for you.”
He pauses in his movement. “Why would she? I’m dead.”
I step forward and point at him. “Go ahead, feel bad for yourself. But you are the man of this house now. Start acting like it.”
“I thought you might prefer the position.” He sneers. “Seeing as how you own me.”
I turn away. “I won’t talk to you in this state.”
“No?” I hear him move, and despite his inebriation, he easily grabs my arm and spins me around. “You love that I won’t fuck anyone else. You love having me all to yourself, controlling me. You always have. Everyone always has. Why is that? What is it about me that begs for claiming?”
“Edmund—”
“Is it your own insecurity? You spent centuries alone until me. Why?” He latches onto the front of my shirt. “Was I an easy target? A weak, pretty thing on that bloody island. If I had run from you, would you have let me?”
I open my mouth to speak, but something…something is shifting within me. Something bad.
“You would have taken advantage, like so many others.” He moves so close, spit hits my face. “You are just like them, the cowards who shoved me over couches and took and took. You are not special. You were merely stronger than them. That’s why you have me—because I couldn’t get away.”
The dark creature, silent for so long, purrs. And I will never let you leave. If you tried to run, I would chase you to the ends of the earth. I would tie you up and keep you forever…forever.
“There it is,” he says. “Haven’t seen that look in ages.” He shoves me hard in the chest—so hard I take three steps back. “Come on.” He shoves me again. “Show yourself.”
“You don’t want to play this game,” I growl.
“Fuck off, old man.” He heaves another shove into my chest. “Scared now that I can fight back? I thought you enjoyed feeling me struggle.”
God, I do: struggling and whimpering and begging. I wonder if I can make him cry.
He throws the first punch. I shouldn’t be surprised when I see stars. I know he can punch; I’ve borne the brunt of it before. I punch him back, right in the stomach, and he curls over my fist in pain before stomping his heel right into the side of my knee. I just barely stay standing as the dark creature roars and takes control.
My face must change because his eyes widen in fear as I tackle him onto the bed. I tear his clothes. He tries to fight back, stop me, but I pin his wrists above his head with one hand. I bite at his neck. I don’t break skin, but he cries out. Some part of me recognizes it is not a good sound, but the dark creature…
I smack Edmund across the face when he says no. I smack him again on the other cheek. I don’t remember tearing his trousers open or shoving my hand inside. His dick is not even half hard. I think he asks me to stop, but…
I barely hear the small sound of his voice as my hungry gaze swallows every inch of his pale chest and abdomen. His whole body shakes with the force of unnecessary breath—quick, panting, terrified breath.
Stop. Stop. Please.
The dark creature flips Edmund onto his stomach and shoves his pants down his thighs. It prepares to fuck him roughly, no mercy, until a heavy candelabra flies across the room and slams into my head.
I tumble back onto the floor, away from him, and wonder who the hell is in the room with us. Oh. No one. Edmund did that. Panicked as he was, he still had the presence of mind to fight back in whatever way he could, even if through supernatural means.
The dark creature disappears back from wherever it came, and only then do I come back to myself and realize it had not been imagination: through it all, Edmund had, in fact,
been begging me to stop.
“Jesus,” I whisper. I sit up and reach for him, curled on the floor at the foot of the bed.
“Don’t,” he says. He stands and pulls his trousers back up, buttons torn in the front. He doesn’t look at me as he takes a blanket from the bed and wraps it around his shoulders. He walks unsteadily to the chaise by the window and lies down on his side, faced away from me.
I crawl toward him and come to rest on the ground below. He shifts to pull the blanket tighter around himself. I touch the leg of furniture as though touching Edmund.
Still a monster then.
Chapter Eight
OF COURSE, I wake alone. I’m frankly surprised I don’t wake on the front lawn. I deserve nothing better. Instead, I’m still on the floor by the now empty chaise. The blanket Edmund wore to bed is draped over me. Did my beloved do that? Why would he show me a bit of kindness after the things I did, the things he said…?
I must find him.
Clothes wrinkled and askew, I rush from our room and into the long hallway, lit by gray morning light. Although connected, the guest wing is a bit of a walk from the main area of the house. I would know as I wandered the property last night while waiting for Edmund. I know my way around, so I consider the places he might be. True, he could be on a morning ride, but hopefully not. With any luck, I can find him and kneel at his feet.
I decide to check the library first. The door is open when I stick my head inside, but Edmund is not there. However, the library is not empty. Brien sits on a couch, an aged book on his lap. When he sees me, he glares and says nothing. The tips of his massive fangs hang over his bottom lip. He glares and glares and—
For God’s sake. He heard us. He heard Edmund pleading for mercy.
I back away and run toward the kitchen, dining room, ballroom…anywhere but the library. I almost sob with relief when I hear Edmund’s voice. I skid to a halt outside the parlor, and he looks up. There is little resemblance to the man I saw last night. He is Edmund again—my Edmund—clear-eyed, washed, in his green suit.
He smiles softly. “Andrew, please join us.”
Escaping Mortality Page 6