“Fine,” Olive said. “She will have two minutes.”
Probably more like one minute thirty, Clay thought, and kept pushing. “Where do you want me to leave this?”
“This” meaning Elle.
The director wiped a cloth over his shiny head and said, “Just take it into the next room. The furnace entrance is through there.”
Clay nodded. “Will do. Come on, little human.”
The director held open one of the wooden doors and Clay pushed the coffin through the opening. The door swung shut after him and Emmie, and Clay pushed the casket and bier forward, toward the end of the room.
This chamber didn’t have the bright, airy ambience of the funeral hall; rather it was dim and clustered with extra tables and chairs. Empty vases stood poised around the room like waiting flytraps, and there were spare drapes and cloths hanging over trestle tables in the far corner of the room. He made a mental note of those.
Making sure the door was definitely shut, Clay quickly moved the coffin toward the door marked “furnace room” and set the flowers on the floor. Then he began snapping open the clasps that held the lid down.
“We have to hurry,” Clay said to Emmie, whose tears had dried with remarkable speed.
“Where can she go?” Emmie asked. “Will she be okay?”
The last clasp undone, Clay flicked the lid open and looked at Elle. She looked different, really different, but he didn’t have time to focus on the changes. He had to make sure she was out of the coffin, and safe.
He reached in and hauled Elle out, propping her up next to him. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing fast for a Chosen. Clay thought at her, “Ignore how Emmie and I smell. I know we smell nice.”
Out loud, he said, “Quick, see that rear table and the drapes? Hide under them.”
Moving faster than she’d ever been able to before, Elle was gone from his side. It hadn’t taken her long to work out how to use that vampire agility, he thought. Not turning to see if she’d done as told, he shut the coffin lid and flicked the clasps shut then dumped the flowers back on top. He could hear footsteps coming toward the doors. Then he knelt down in front of Emmie.
“Cry some more.”
Emmie nodded and started sobbing into the used hanky. Gross. She could definitely keep it.
“Are you ready now?” The funeral director stepped into the room and rapidly approached the coffin, looking rather like a shiny turtle after one too many cups of coffee. Behind him, and with a clickety-click of her cane, came Olive.
Clay nodded and stood.
“Let’s check everything is in order and then head home,” Olive said. She hobbled her way over to the casket and paused, staring hard at the wood. As if she could see through it and into the emptiness inside.
The director walked around the coffin and nodded his head a few times. “It all looks good; I’ll just push the coffin on through.”
Olive looked at Clay and Emmie and then snarled, “Open it.”
Clay folded his arms across his chest and tried to appear bored. Emmie cried harder.
“Sorry, ma’am?” The poor funeral director looked like he was about to faint.
“Open the coffin,” Olive snapped.
The director was sweating, a lot. Then again, Clay thought, the room was a little close to the furnace. The portly man’s chins jiggled as he said, “I’m sorry, but that’s against policy. There are disease problems to consider.”
“Policy? Don’t be ridiculous; she’s my granddaughter. Plus, I don’t care; I want to make sure she’s in there before she goes through.”
The director drew himself up to his full height and dabbed the cloth onto his sweating brow with renewed vigor. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.
“Mother, of course Elle’s body is in the coffin. Where else would it be?” Melissande had walked quietly up to Emmie’s side and had taken the small girl’s hand in one of her own. Her long blonde hair was swept upward in an elegant bun and her dress was red. Melissande’s expression was fierce, but broken. Clay rather thought the dress reflected the blood that was pouring from the woman’s shattered heart.
A tear-stained face looked up at Melissande. Emmie should be an actor, Clay thought. She could traipse the boards with ease.
Clay noticed for the first time that Olive didn’t wear a speck of red in her entire outfit. Not even a garnet winked in her jewelry. No mourning to be seen in any shape or form.
“I can assure you,” the director said, “we are not in the habit of losing bodies.”
“Amuse me.”
“Mother, no. You are going beyond the bounds of sane behavior.” Melissande was shaking her head, her face so white she could have masqueraded as a vampire. “Elle is dead and we brought her body here yesterday. I prepared her for the funeral myself—she has not been embalmed or anything.” She leaned away from Emmie and whispered to her mother, “She will smell and Emmie has been through enough.”
“But—”
“Have you lost your mind, Olive?” Clay decided he should hurry this along. “Your granddaughter is dead. Unless you think the vampire who Chose her has stolen her corpse, why in the name of blood do you want to see it again after it has been sitting out for a day? Didn’t you see it yesterday?”
Clay could see Olive’s eyes flicker as she tried—and failed—to think of an acceptable excuse to look inside the coffin. She was either going to have to accuse Clay of stealing the body, which he would hardly have had time for, or admit that Elle really had been Chosen. And that she wanted to kill her for it.
Olive slashed a hand through the air. “Fine. Do it.”
The director nodded and exhaled deeply in a sign of profound relief. He then pushed the coffin through to the next room while dabbing his forehead with a free hand. Clay caught a glimpse of a large furnace before the door swung shut behind the man.
“Come on, let’s go,” Melissande said gently to Emmie.
The little girl nodded and followed her mother from the room, still clutching the disgusting hanky. Olive stared hard at Clay, but he knew she wouldn’t say anything, not without giving herself away—just in case Clay hadn’t done anything to help her Chosen granddaughter escape.
“Can you stay hidden in here for a couple hours?” Clay thought at the corner of the room.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty hungry.”
“So,” Olive said, her Green eyes narrowed and focused on him. “What did you think of my granddaughter?”
“Elle? She was feisty. Met her by accident.” Clay grabbed hold of Olive’s elbow and “helped” her from the room.
Olive sounded exasperated. “No, what did you think of Emmie?”
Clay pushed Olive out of the room and shut the door behind him. “Nice kid.”
“Don’t eat anyone,” he thought at Elle.
He thought he heard a snort in reply.
Chapter 30
Dante was trying to sleep. Despite the plush, satin-covered cushions and the warmth beneath the sheepskin cover, he just couldn’t manage it. He’d even tried counting humans, but it had done no good. Sleep was elusive, especially when all he could hear in his mind were the words, “I don’t want to see you for a decade.”
He hadn’t realized how much his father’s temporary affection had mattered to him. The awkward one-armed hugs, the pleased attitude, even the simple questions about his day. They’d meant something to him, which was something he couldn’t understand because Dante had known they would all be fleeting. And very few things actually meant anything to him at all.
He adjusted the red-dyed sheepskin over his stomach and crossed his arms. The curtains that hung either side of the four-poster bed were heavy black velvet, but they were open to let the weak sunlight through. He was such a bloody disappointment—to himself, as much as his father.
He’d failed on so many levels.
Oh, there was the surface issue of his killing a human who was related to an acquaintance of his father’s. Then you went one
deeper and hit the thorny issue of Dante not being able to Choose someone properly. How else could he explain that no one had realized the servant was still alive when the body was removed? Moving on, there was the fact that no matter how much Viktor had tried, he hadn’t been able to rid Dante of his obsession. And an obsession it was, Dante could admit that much to himself. But he knew he was right. There was something different about those humans and he would one day prove it. Although, he was smart enough to leave it for another century or so while his father calmed down and he was—hopefully—no longer under the control of his parent’s purse strings. How he’d achieve that miraculous feat, Dante wasn’t sure.
Shutting his eyes again, he hoped for sleep. For several minutes he lay there, corpse-like, arms across his chest, breathing slow and even, trying to lure sleep into his web.
The door to the outer chamber opened and footsteps click-clicked across the stone toward his bedchamber. Part of Dante wished that it would be the maid—until he remembered that he’d apparently “killed” her—but the scent of sex and blood wafted through the air and he knew it was someone he’d rather not see.
“You’re really in the cesspool this time,” Misty said.
Dante opened his eyes and looked across the length of the bed at his sister. She stood at the foot of the mattress, arms crossed over her chest and one foot tapping against the floor. Her white sarcenet gown left little to the imagination—with her arms positioned where they were—and her hair tumbled down her back in a length of coitus-messed waves.
Blood, he resented her sometimes. Or thought he did. The feeling never seemed to last. None of them ever did.
“You think?” Dante muttered, propping himself up against the headboard.
Misty sighed and walked over to the far side of the bed. She carefully climbed on top of the sheepskin and leaned back against the headboard next to him. Pulling her knees up and tucking them under her chin, Dante had to wonder how on earth that position could be comfortable with all the undergarments that went with the ensemble. But he wasn’t about to ask.
“Why’d you Choose another human?” Misty propped her chin on her knees, but her eyes were watching him.
Dante lifted a hand and then let it drop to his side. Maybe honesty would be a better option right now. Misty seemed in a…practical mood. “I thought it would work; I wanted to see if I could do it right.”
“But you Chose your servant.” Misty moved her chin from left to right.
Dante’s hand turned into a fist next to his leg. “I didn’t think anybody would care. The girl worked for vampires, for blood’s sake; I thought she wouldn’t mind being Chosen.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“Of course I did,” Dante snapped.
Misty frowned. “Father is furious. He says the girl never would have agreed—despite the fact he’s told me a hundred and one times that no human would ever refuse—and that her family are up in arms.”
“What does it matter?” Dante asked. “They’re humans.”
“Yes, but these humans are apparently powerful cits.”
Ahh, cits, Dante thought. The bane of an aristocratic society; wealthy merchants who wanted in on the few titles there were around, and could afford to buy their way into one.
“Shouldn’t they have been happy then? If I was keen on the servant enough to Choose her, wouldn’t it follow from that that I would have married her?” That had been the argument he’d been planning on spouting. Plan B had had its definite drawbacks.
“Didn’t Father have his little marriage chat with you?” Misty asked.
Dante thought back. “Yes, he wanted the noose—as in, me—gone from his neck. I think that he thought he might have a chance at grandchildren if he married me off.”
“What, you’re saying I’m infertile?” Misty’s chin jerked up and her eyes flashed at him.
“No.” He shook his head with a sigh. “Just that you aren’t the marrying type.”
“I don’t need to marry to have an heir. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a girl.”
“Sorry, no, hadn’t picked up on that before.” Dante tried to smile and Misty returned the expression, although hers was hard to read apart from the flashing of teeth.
“Why did you Choose that servant in particular, Dante?” Her voice was serious and without a lot of the girliness she often used when around him or any male. In fact, this whole conversation felt entirely too mature for his older sister.
He didn’t know what to do. Should he admit his ongoing obsession to Misty? She already knew about it from the past, but maybe she thought he’d put it behind him? Don’t be an idiot, his mind grated, she’s your bloody sister. She remembers how you obsessed for sixty years on learning how to play the pianoforte when you had no talent. And she’d suffered for it—everyone who had been in the house within earshot of the music room had.
“Because she had interesting eyes,” Dante admitted.
Misty groaned. “I knew it!” She flicked some hair over her shoulder and then stretched her legs out on the bed while tugging her bodice up with her other hand.
“What? Knew what?” Dante said.
Misty rolled her eyes at him. “That you weren’t over your obsession.”
“Well, I’m right. There is something going on with them.” Dante folded his arms across his chest.
“Really?” Misty raised her eyebrows.
“Really.”
“I was being sarcastic,” Misty said.
“Look, the first girl I Chose was a whore, all right?”
“Yeah, we all know that. Tell me something new.” Misty began rearranging the cushions behind her back. First a yellow satin one, then a red damask one.
“But she had blue eyes.”
“Yeah?” Misty was starting to look bored.
“She died when I Chose her. So I Chose someone else.” Dante felt heat rising to his face.
“The servant, right.” Misty leaned back against all her cushions—she’d added a purple one to her pile.
“Wrong.”
She sat up a little and met his eyes. “Wrong?”
“Sarcasm?” he asked.
“No.”
“Oh, well yes, wrong. It was a woman I found in the street. She had green eyes. It was like she knew what I wanted and she fought me. But I overpowered her easily enough. I then hired a hotel room in the dock area around Bridge Road and tried to Choose her.”
“You’re bloody crazy!” Misty said. “What happened?”
“She died, within seconds of the third transfusion.” Dante watched as Misty sank back against the cushions.
“What do you think it means? That you’re doing it wrong?”
He briefly wondered why she wasn’t angry at him for breaking basically the only law of their kind. And why he was telling her any of this. But it wasn’t like there was anyone else he could tell. And she wouldn’t let anyone else know; it would mire the family in scandal. “No, I think I’m doing it perfectly fine.”
Misty snorted.
Dante inhaled and tried to keep his frustration with his sibling on a simmering level. “I think that it means they can’t make the transition. Whether they have green, blue or gray eyes; I don’t think they can become one of us or a were, for that matter.”
“No loss on the last point. We’ve enough fleabags around as it is.”
Dante was about to point out that Pinton had a rather low were population—and that it only comprised wolves—but stopped himself in time. Misty wouldn’t care. One werewolf was one too many, in her mind. He’d have to ask her about her aversion one day.
Misty was quiet for a few seconds, appearing to think. “What color eyes did the servant have?”
Dante smiled a little, the right corner of his mouth rising. “Hazel.”
“Hazel?”
“Hazel.” He nodded.
She exhaled, seemed to pause for a moment, then asked, “What’s hazel?”
“Mostly it’s brown, but it has bits of g
reen, blue or gray mixed in. I thought that since her eye color was mostly brown, the human could be Chosen, since it appears that brown eyes can make the change.”
“Seems like you were wrong.”
“I don’t think so,” Dante said. “She was still breathing when they took her.”
“Father couldn’t hear a heartbeat; I heard the servants talking. They’re all convinced you’re going to maul them next.”
Dante picked some lint off the sheepskin blanket. “Yeah, well, Father’s hearing isn’t as acute as mine.”
“No one’s is,” Misty said. He couldn’t tell if she was teasing him or not.
“Either way, Father won’t let me go and see her. I heard the servants talking in the hall; they said that her family was going to cremate the body because they were worried she’d turn into a ghoul or something.”
“Ghouls don’t exist,” Misty scoffed.
“No, but a lot of humans think so, from what I can hear. A Chosen person who doesn’t rise within the proper time may one day rise, without a brain, to suck the blood from the living without knowledge or reason.”
Misty started laughing. “That’s hilarious!”
Dante shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter if it’s funny or not. If they burn her before she wakes, then she’s dead. If they burn her after she wakes, but she’s stuck in her coffin, she’s dead. I won’t know if my experiment really worked or not.”
“You aren’t going to try again, are you?” Misty’s mirth had vanished.
“Not for a long time,” Dante answered.
“Thank the blood for small mercies.”
Chapter 31
Anton stared at his father with his mouth hanging open in shock. He shut his jaw slowly and watched as Reginald Greystoke settled back into the large, brown leather chair opposite Anton. They were in the library at the Pinton townhouse and Anton felt like he’d been hit by a brick. He tried to ignore the groan his father made as the leather stretched around Reginald’s frame, and the sound of his popping bones. His father was growing old. Had age muddled his parent’s mind?
Graced Page 15