by Kallysten
“So, tell me,” she said, her eyes still closed and her head swaying a little as though lost in music only she could hear. “What did Morgan tell you about Melody?”
The question did not entirely surprise me. After all, I had already figured out that the only reason she had let that name slip the first time we’d met was because she wanted me to ask Morgan about Melody. And now, I had to tell her I hadn’t done what she expected from me.
I had to swallow a boulder or two before I managed to answer.
“Nothing. I… I didn’t ask him about her.”
Her fingers stilled, and while the piano still didn’t make a sound, I could all but hear the dissonant chords in my mind as her head jerked toward me, her gaze chilling me with all the reprobation it contained.
“You didn’t ask him about her,” she repeated with a heavy sigh. “Well. I can’t say I expected that. Don’t you want to know?”
“Only if he wants to tell me,” I said, hating how much my voice was shaking. “I don’t want to force him…”
I trailed off when she snorted.
“Force him, really. As if you could force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. You overestimate yourself, Angelina.”
What was I supposed to answer to that? Stephen saved me from having to figure it out by knocking lightly before pushing open the door that I hadn’t fully closed. He was carrying the same gleaming metal tray on which he’d brought me food my first day at the mansion. A steaming teapot was surrounded by three delicate cups on saucers along with small pots for sugar and milk, all of them made of fine white porcelain with sky-blue designs. Stephen made a light bow; the porcelain did not so much as rattle on the tray.
“Miss Irene,” he said in what, in my mind, I had labeled his ‘proper’ voice. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”
She’d barely thrown him a glance when he first entered, but now she gave him a long, piercing look.
“You’re the spitting image of your grandfather,” she said in lieu of acknowledgment. “Did anyone ever tell you that?”
Stephen looked startled for a second. He covered by stepping forward to set the tray on a low table by the piano.
“No one until now, ma’am.”
Irene tapped a thoughtful finger over her lips.
“Hmm, yes, I suppose your father wouldn’t remember, even if he named you after him. Still, wearing a uniform like he did, the resemblance is obvious. Let me think…”
And with those words, to my deep surprise—and my relief, too, I have to admit—she stood and walked out. Just like that. No word of explanation or anything. As I took my first steady breath since entering the room, I met Stephen’s eyes and realized he was just as baffled as I was.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
I shrugged.
“So far. Where did she go?”
“No idea. Would you like some tea?”
I’d much rather have had coffee, or even wine for that matter, but that wasn’t an option, and my mouth felt awfully dry. I nodded, and he poured. Before I’d done more than take a small sip, Irene was back.
“I knew this old thing was somewhere,” she said, sounding like she was talking to herself as she looked at a piece of paper in her hand.
She came over to me. The cup clinked on its saucer as my hands started to shake.
She showed me the paper: a photograph, yellowed by age, depicting an African-American family. Two small girls, little more than toddlers, stood in front of their parents. The woman, dressed in what might have been her Sunday best complete with a small hat, held a baby in her arms. The man at her side had one hand on her shoulder, the other on the head of the child in front of him. He wore a uniform; my father’s interest in all things military must have transferred a little to me, because I recognized the uniform as being from the World War II era. And just like Irene had said, he looked a lot like Stephen. Or rather, Stephen looked a lot like him. It had to be his grandfather.
Unsure what Irene wanted from me, I nodded. It seemed to be enough because she pulled back and handed the picture to Stephen. Recognition lit his face, and I could tell he was touched by this unexpected peek at his family’s past.
“I always liked men in uniform,” she said, now returning to the piano. “Although a military uniform is a lot more interesting than a butler’s, don’t you think, Angelina?”
I managed some sort of noncommittal noise. What I thought was that small talk with Irene was just as disturbing as outright threats. Was there a point to this stroll down memory lane? Was she just toying with me, lulling me into a false sense of security before she went crazy again? Or had she really cared about these people, as the fact that she had a picture of them suggested? Caught between options that all seemed just as likely to me, I didn’t know what to think.
“I’ll have some tea now,” she said in a tone that left room for nothing but immediate obedience.
Stephen tried to hand the picture back to her, but she waved a casual hand.
“You can keep it if you want it.”
When Stephen said, “Thank you, Miss Irene,” his voice was just as courteous but a great deal warmer than when he’d first greeted her. Was that what it’d been about? Making an ally out of him? To what end?
He poured tea in a second cup, added sugar and milk at her request, and made the lightest of bows when he handed her the cup. Just as she was thanking him, a wonderful thing happened: Morgan walked in. I’d never been so happy to see him.
His hair looked wild, as though he’d been running. He was still wearing a winter coat and scarf. His gaze swept the room, stopping on me. He scrutinized me, and I was sure he was looking for any sign of pain or discomfort. Only when I gave him a tentative smile did he look away and toward Irene.
“Morgan,” she said in a light voice. “What a lovely surprise. I thought you were out.”
“I’m sure you did,” he replied, unbuttoning his coat and tugging the scarf loose. “A bit early for tea, isn’t it?”
She clucked her tongue.
“Have I taught you nothing? It’s never too early or late for tea. Same as with blood.”
Just when I’d started to relax a little, even to feel safe with Morgan here, one word from her and my fear slammed back in place. Did she mean she intended to have blood after her tea?
Whose blood?
“Sit next to me,” she demanded. “Have a cup.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Morgan said when Stephen made as though to fill the last cup.
Stephen inclined his head and stepped behind Morgan to draw the coat off his shoulders. He soon left the room with coat and scarf, while Morgan, with a long-suffering sigh, went to sit on the piano bench next to Irene. Part of me was happy to see his sighs weren’t reserved just for me—but I’d have been a lot happier if he’d sat between Irene and me rather than on the far side. Irene took another sip of tea before setting the cup and saucer down on the low table.
“I’m glad you came back,” she said. “Your timing is impeccable.”
With that, she set her fingers on the piano keys again and this time started to play. After a second or two, Morgan joined in, his hands moving alongside her, his notes complementing hers.
I’d never heard the piece they were playing, but then I am in no way a classical-music expert. The tune was slow and hauntingly beautiful. It might have helped that they were both very good, or at least they were to my untrained ears. Clearly, it wasn’t the first time they’d played together like this.
After only a few seconds, Irene said, as though continuing her previous thought, “Impeccable timing, indeed. I was just about to tell Angelina about Melody.”
Morgan did not react in any way. His head was bowed toward the piano, his eyes half closed. He didn’t miss a note as Irene began her tale. And while she, too, continued to play, she glanced toward me every so often as though to gauge what effect her words had on me.
“Melody was a beautiful, young woman whom Morgan liked very
much when he was just a new blood. That means, when he was still a very young vampire. How old were you, darling?”
Morgan’s lips barely moved as he answered.
“You know perfectly well.”
“Do I? I get forgetful in my old age. Tell me.”
“Thirty.”
“Ah yes, thirty. Our dearest Lilah gave you Melody for your thirtieth birthday, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
When Irene looked at me again, it was all I could do not to shudder and embarrass myself. This time, she kept her eyes on me.
“You see, Angelina, it didn’t take us long to realize Morgan had a predilection for a very specific type of woman. Long, dark hair, dark eyes, generous curves, an impudent tongue, and a pretty smile…”
Her grin showed too many teeth, but I barely noticed. I was remembering something Morgan had said the first time we’d met: he had a type, and I was it. Apparently everyone who knew him knew about it.
“We all have favorite traits, I suppose,” Irene continued. “But Morgan… it was an obsession with him. And when he saw Melody… Lilah was always very good at finding women who suited his tastes, but Melody was something else, wasn’t she?”
Those last words were directed at him, but he didn’t acknowledge them. His fingers continued to move on the keyboard, as did Irene’s, but to tell the truth I barely even heard the music anymore. Irene’s words were too captivating. This wasn’t how I wanted to hear about Melody, but would Morgan ever have told me any of this?
“She was perfect,” Irene pressed on, unknowingly using the same words Miss Delilah had used to describe me. “And our Morgan… Instead of doing what he’d always done, instead of drinking her up in one go, or even making her last a few days, our Morgan did what his maker had told him he mustn’t. He gave the poor girl his blood and made her a vampire.”
Abruptly, without warning, she started on a new tune. Morgan paused for a second, then easily joined in. The new tempo was a little faster, but the chords sounded much more sinister—as did Irene’s voice when she picked up her story. Now, she sounded almost like she had when I’d first met her: cold and dangerous.
“The thing is, I had not forbidden it for the sake of forbidding. For a new blood to make a vampire is taboo. We have many rules as a species. That is how we endure. How we remain hidden from human society. How we remain safe. When a full-fledged vampire turns someone, a little bit of them passes to their progeny. What they know, their experiences, their self-control, some of that carries through the blood and helps the new blood keep their mind so that they don’t do stupid things that can lead humans to them. But when a new blood turns someone… there is no self control. Just the need for blood. Overwhelming. Stronger than anything. Stronger even than compulsion. Do you understand where I’m going with this, Angelina?”
My cup of cooling tea rattled in its saucer. I’d have happily set it down, but that would have meant getting closer to Irene, and I’d just as well avoid that, especially since she gave me an impatient look when I didn’t reply right away.
“Melody… She… Huh… She put you in danger?”
A single, shallow nod told me I’d answered correctly. It really shouldn’t have made me so relieved.
“She did. All of us. Just nights after she was turned, there was already a veritable mob hunting her down. It’s a miracle we managed to save her.”
My expression must have showed something, because her head made a small, irritated jerking motion.
“She put us in danger, yes, but we couldn’t let a bunch of pitchfork-carrying humans kill her. That’s not how it works.”
At another look from her, I knew she was waiting for me to ask. Did I want to? Did I want to engage this woman, interact with her, when she’d proved herself unstable, to say the least, and quite capable of killing me? All that paled against one fact: in just minutes, she’d told me more about vampires than Morgan had in two weeks. So, yes, I played her game, as dangerous as I knew it could be.
“How does it work, then?” I asked.
She looked pleased at my question. I can’t say that reassured me much.
“Do you want to tell her, Morgan?”
He had barely moved so far, other than his fingers striking notes. It wasn’t hard however to guess that he wasn’t pleased that Irene was sharing details of his life.
“Not particularly,” he said in the blandest voice I’d ever heard him use.
Irene was undeterred.
“I will, then. How it works, Angelina, is that the same vampire who made a mistake in bringing someone unworthy to the fold is required to correct that mistake.”
My heart tightened as I understood what she was implying.
“You mean you made Morgan kill her,” I breathed.
“What I mean is that if she had been allowed to live, she’d have caused our family’s destruction. Either she’d have led another mob to us, or other vampires would have passed judgment on all of us. Morgan understood that.”
“Did I?”
He spoke so quietly that, had he not ceased to play at that very moment, I might not have heard him. As it was, I barely understood his words beneath Irene’s continued notes.
“Didn’t you?” she asked back, and she, too, stopped playing.
“I don’t know,” he said, turning his face to look straight at her. “Did I really understand or did you compel me to understand?”
She huffed.
“Don’t be overly dramatic, child.”
“I am no child.”
“Then stop acting like one, Morgan.”
“As you say, Mother.”
Observing that little exchange from mere feet away, I felt extraordinarily out of place. It looked like a conversation they should have had in private. I know that personally I don’t want anyone to see me argue with either of my parents. I could hardly leave without drawing their attention to me, however, especially when Irene took me to witness.
“Can you believe this?” she asked, gesturing at me. “Four-hundred years old and he still acts like a brat.”
I don’t know where my reply came from. I can only plead insanity. Or maybe watching them have such a familiar—familial—interaction had quelled my fears enough to allow me to say, “I had noticed, yes.”
Irene laughed.
“Oh, she’s sassy when she forgets to be scared. I think I almost like her.”
The insanity continued, and I was horrified to hear myself reply, “I’m afraid I can’t say the same.”
Irene’s amusement subsided at once, and her smile became positively alarming at the number of teeth it bared. My body turned to stone when she slipped off the piano bench and stood; no more sassiness for me, not now that she was a step closer to being able to wrap her fingers around my throat again.
“Do you want to know what the difference is, dearie?” she said in a voice that managed to be sweet and mocking all at once. “I don’t give a damn whether you like me or not. But you… You should be very concerned about what I think of you, or next time—”
I could easily imagine how that sentence would have ended, but thankfully I didn’t get to hear it confirmed. Morgan stood as well, abruptly enough to push the bench askew behind him.
“I thought I’d made myself clear yesterday,” he said coldly. “You will not threaten her again, Irene.”
All it took was one word, ‘yesterday,’ and I knew, without the shadow of a doubt, who had scratched his face—and why. Irene’s sudden anger as she faced him, hands on her hips and her chin held high, doubled my certainty.
“And I told you, don’t presume to tell me what I can or cannot do. It will not end well for you, darling.”
When she’d called him ‘darling’ a few minutes earlier, the word had brimmed with affection; now, it sounded like a curse. Morgan did not so much as blink.
“I made a promise to Angelina that you would not hurt her again. You know how I feel about my promises.”
She let out a bark of bo
ne-chilling, blood-curdling laughter.
“Do you really think you could stop me?”
“I hope neither of us has to find out.”
For a few seconds, the tension was so thick that I found myself unable to breathe. Or maybe my body had decided that sounds, any sounds at all, would be a bad idea at the moment.
“I hope so as well,” Irene finally murmured.
She reached out to him, her fingertips ghosting over the fading marks on his cheek. Her hand slid to the back of his neck, and when she drew him to her, I thought she was about to kiss him on the mouth. Instead, she did the last thing I expected. She rested a hand on his shoulder, pulled his head down, and kissed his forehead, much like a mother kissing a child.
A word of goodbye, and she was gone.
I started breathing again.
*
As soon as Irene left the room, Morgan sat down, righting the bench as he did so. His hands returned to the keyboard, and he started to play again. This tune, light and slow, I had heard before, although I couldn’t name it or its composer. After the tension of the last few minutes, it was certainly soothing, and I was happy to just sit there, listen, and breathe. I’d never realized just how underrated breathing was until I’d first come to the mansion and started having trouble breathing.
“She didn’t hurt you, did she?” Morgan asked after a little while.
“No,” I murmured.
He turned his face toward me and studied me as he had when he’d first entered the room.
“Then why…” he started, but cut himself short, finishing only with, “Your hand.”
Unsure what he meant, I looked at my hands. One still clutched the mostly-full cup on its saucer, balanced on my leg. The other was clenched in a tight fist. I didn’t remember closing my hand. When I opened it and noticed the faintly bleeding crescents left by my nails inside my palms, I understood what Morgan had meant, what he’d smelled.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just scratches. Are you okay?”
He gave me a frown.
“Am I okay? I’m not the one who’s bleeding.”
My legs felt a little unsteady when I stood, but I managed the four or five steps to the tray without stumbling. I set my cup down, then sat on the bench next to Morgan. Rather than facing the same way he did, however, I kept my back to the piano and raised my gaze to the window. The sky was still cloudy, but a little bit of blue was peeking through.