by Kallysten
Our laughs tapered off as Morgan stopped just inside the room. He observed us with a puzzled frown, and I, for one, returned the look. His coat was open over the same suit he’d been wearing when I’d last seen him leaving the music room. The marks on his cheek were gone, but deep shadows under his eyes darkened his gaze a little more. The most startling thing, though, was that he was drenched, his hair plastered to his skull, and his coat and the suit underneath darkened by water.
He gave me a small nod before turning to Stephen.
“A couple of mugs, please,” he said, his voice rough. “You can leave them on my dresser.”
He was gone again before Stephen could even acknowledge the request.
A thick silence fell on the room. I watched Stephen draw two black porcelain mugs from the cupboard and fill them with blood from the fridge. I wasn’t as grossed out by the whole process as I’d have expected to be.
“Was he out all night?” I asked quietly.
Stephen didn’t lift his eyes from the buzzing microwave oven.
“I don’t know. I told you before, I don’t keep track of his comings and goings.” After a beat, he added, quieter now, “But it certainly looked like he was. That’s… usually not a very good sign.”
He looked at me at those last words, and the question was the same as it’d been earlier. What had happened with Irene?
Not much at all, really. Just a few words, an old story shared with a new friend. Just a slow if metaphorical twisting of a serrated knife in Morgan’s gut. Enough to set him wandering all night in the rain, apparently. I had the sudden urge to go apologize to him.
It was silly. It wasn’t my fault Irene had spilled his secrets and his past in front of me. I hadn’t asked for it. In fact, I’d been very careful not to ask. It had been forced on me, the same way I’d been forced to stay at the mansion, or even to go to Morgan’s bed. Once again, I’d been nothing but a pawn in the twisted game ‘Mother’ played. This time, though, I wasn’t the one who’d been hurt.
When Stephen picked up the two mugs, I almost asked him to let me bring them to Morgan. I managed to refrain by repeating to myself Morgan wouldn’t care to see me now. I’d only be a reminder of what had happened. No, better to leave him alone, let him heal. He’d come back to me when he was ready, when the pain wasn’t so bad anymore.
Or at least, that was what I hoped. I never got to find out if he would have, because things accelerated that day in a way I couldn’t have anticipated.
I spent the morning in the library—sitting in an armchair rather than Irene’s Victorian sofa. I’d decided to let him come to me, but I figured I might as well be where he’d find me easily if he wanted to talk. Yes, it was absolutely self-serving and contradictory. I never claimed my actions made sense. Where Morgan was concerned, my logic seemed to take frequent leaves of absence. As long as I waited to hear him step into his office, however, it was in vain, and I only had the books for company that morning.
Lunch was just as lonely. Stephen had left a note in the kitchen. He had errands to run until the evening and wouldn’t have the chance to eat lunch with me. I couldn’t help but wonder if the way I’d evaded his questions had upset him. He’d been friendly enough at breakfast, but what can I say, I was becoming a little paranoid. When you’re cooped up with the same people day-in and day-out, I guess it’s normal to try to read intentions and meanings in every little thing they do.
I warmed up leftovers and ate standing in the kitchen. I was hoping—again—that Morgan would make an appearance. No such luck. And of course I tried to find meaning in that, too.
In need of some human contact, I called my mother after lunch. We’d emailed each other since my parents’ visit, but I’d stayed away from the webchat. I didn’t want to have to explain the fading bruises on my neck. She had a thousand things to tell me, which was just as well because I didn’t have anything new to share. I wandered through the mansion as I listened to her, making appropriate sounds of interest every now and then. When she ran out of news, she asked if I was back in my apartment. I lied and said yes. Her next question was one of these trick games she likes to play.
“Will you be working with Morgan again?” she asked almost offhandedly.
I translated that as, “Are you still seeing him?”
I didn’t know what reply to give either version of the question.
All in all, by the time we hung up, I was feeling even lonelier.
My absentminded wandering had taken me down to the first floor, back to the room with the Monet painting and, opposite it, the large painting of Central Park. Except it wasn’t there anymore. The furniture had been rearranged so that a tall cabinet stood in the center of that wall, right where my favorite painting had been hanging. I looked around for a few seconds, almost thinking that I’d gotten lost in the maze-like mansion and that I’d find the painting in the next room. But no, this was the right place. In the corner, the armchair was the same one I had curled in to lose myself in the painting. And of course, the Monet had no equal in the mansion.
I remembered, then, Irene’s first visit, and how she’d ordered Morgan to get rid of this painting she deemed inferior. I also remembered how he’d said he didn’t have to obey her anymore, but he still did for courtesy’s sake. He’d done as she’d asked, and removed the painting. That realization made me feel bereft… and betrayed. I had no reason to be, really. It wasn’t like he knew how much I liked that particular painting, and he hadn’t done it to hurt me. But it was just one more thing added to a long list of small and not-so-small blows.
I sat down in that armchair, took my head in my hands, and closed my eyes tightly shut. I could feel tears rising, but I refused to cry. Crying wouldn’t help anything. It wouldn’t bring the painting back, it wouldn’t get me out of the mansion, and it wouldn’t help Morgan heal or make him believe I had feelings for him.
I’d just managed to get a grip on myself when my phone beeped at me. The three chimes very nearly stopped my heart. I’d programmed that sound for messages from Miss Delilah.
A flash of irrational panic coursed through me before I could remind myself that written words wouldn’t allow her to compel me. Or at least, I didn’t think it worked that way. With trembling hands, I opened my inbox. The text message was an answer to my resignation, which she’d never acknowledged until now.
Pity, it said. You were an excellent PA.
Should I reply? No, I decided. Better not to engage her. Besides, what could I say?
Another message popped up.
What are you going to do, then? Did Morgan offer you a job? I hear you did great with that party of yours.
I couldn’t resist answering.
What I do or with whom is none of your business.
I pressed send. And nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the sound Miss Delilah’s phone made when she received a message. It had come in from beyond the room’s arched entrance—from the foyer.
I don’t know if it was surprise or panic that kept me in my chair. Either way, I didn’t move one inch as I heard high heels clicking on the marble floors and coming toward me. When she appeared, I couldn’t have said how I felt even to save my own life. Part of me was acutely aware that she could kill me with nothing more than a few words. All she had to do was compel me to do something impossible—or even just compel me to stop breathing—and I’d die as surely as if she’d crushed my throat with her bare hands. At the same time, though, I couldn’t help but think of the first compulsion she’d placed on me, or at least, the first one I’d been aware of. I couldn’t leave the mansion, not unless she walked me out herself.
And now she was there.
Was she going to release me?
“Morgan is a terrible influence on you, Lina,” she said as she came closer.
The thick carpet covering the floor silenced her heels. She’d slipped her phone in her long winter coat’s pocket, and now peeled the gloves off her hands one finger at a time.
“
Three weeks ago you’d never have told me that something wasn’t my business.”
“Three weeks ago you still treated me like a human being rather than an object you could pass on to someone else.”
Yes, I know. I was running off my mouth again when just seconds earlier I’d been thinking about how easily she could kill me. What can I say, I was mad at her. No, wait, mad didn’t begin to cover it. I was incensed. She’d taken my freedom. She’d taken almost three weeks of my life. She’d taken many choices from me. And because she had, she’d taken away Morgan’s ability to believe my feelings.
If anything, the anger in my voice seemed to amuse her. A small smile was stretching her perfectly made-up lips. She ran a hand down the front of her coat, and the sleek way she unbuttoned her coat, revealing the blue cocktail dress underneath, wouldn’t have been out of place on a runway. With her other hand, she gestured absently at the wall where the Central Park painting used to hang.
“Morgan has no trouble getting rid of objects,” she said. “So clearly, that’s not what you are.”
“What am I, then?”
She sat in the matching armchair across from mine, crossing one leg over the other. “My former assistant, apparently. But enough about that. I hear you met Mother. How are you?”
Her eyes drifted over my neck. The marks there were almost gone, but if you knew what you were looking for, you could still find them. How much had she heard, exactly? And who had told her, Morgan or Irene?
“I’m fine,” I said coldly. “A little claustrophobic, I suppose.”
She batted long eyelashes at me in an overly dramatic manner.
“Claustrophobic? In such a big house? It’s not the company you find stifling, is it?”
I’d already fielded half-veiled questions from my mother; I didn’t need the same from her, too.
“Miss Delilah…” I wanted to kick myself for calling her ‘miss,’ but the words had rolled off my tongue of their own accord. I tried to steel myself and continued in the iciest tone I could muster. “This game has been going on for a little too long, don’t you think?”
She never stopped smiling.
“But I thought you liked games, Lina. Didn’t you enjoy impersonating Morgan?”
‘Impersonating’ wasn’t really the same as sending her three or four text messages from his phone. That ‘game’ had barely lasted long enough for me to even hope my stratagem would work.
“Not particularly, no.”
“Are you telling me you did not enjoy a single moment you spent in this house?” Her smile turned positively predatory. “No lying, now.”
That admonition held an edge, something imperious that bordered on compulsion. I wasn’t sure if it really was. I was on the other hand sure that I didn’t want to find out by doing something as stupid as lying.
“I might have enjoyed it more if it had been my choice,” I said. “And maybe Morgan would have, too.”
That, of all things, wiped the smile off her face. She looked away from me, toward the entrance to the room. From where she sat, she’d be able to see the bottom of the staircase. Was someone there? I followed her gaze, even listened intently, but I couldn’t see or hear anything. She looked at me again, then stood from her chair and came closer to me.
“All right,” she said. “Look at me, Lina.”
My heart jumped in my chest. I knew, right away, what she was going to do. I just didn’t know how she would mess with my mind this time.
“Are you going to compel me again?” My voice sounded accusing. “And tell me to do what? Enjoy myself in here?”
“Look at me,” she repeated, and I did.
In that moment, her eyes seemed as dark, as endless as Morgan’s. I held my breath and braced myself for what was coming.
“Remember how you’re not allowed to leave here without me? I now release you from that order. You may walk out at any time you choose to do so.”
I was barely aware of gasping. It was, all at once, like being doused in a bucket of icy water, and breaking free from steel bonds that had been anchoring me down. Like the ceiling and walls, which had been weighing on me constantly for three weeks, had suddenly disappeared into thin air. It was odd, because I hadn’t moved one inch. I was still in my chair, still inside the mansion. But I already felt free.
“Just like that?” I murmured, a little awed.
“Just like that,” Miss Delilah repeated. She wasn’t looking at me anymore and was buttoning her coat again.
Part of me wanted to thank her, but I forced myself not to say the words. I owed her nothing. If anything, she owed me an apology—not that I thought she’d give me one.
“Your maker…”
Sharp eyes came back to me. I swallowed hard and pressed on.
“Irene. She… she agreed to this?”
She huffed.
“I would not be here if she hadn’t.”
As hard as I tried to understand why Irene might have told Miss Delilah to let me go, I couldn’t figure out one possible reason. When Irene had left yesterday, she’d barely paid attention to me. The whole thing had been about Morgan, I had no doubt there, just like the way she’d threatened me after the party had been all about getting through to Morgan. What was different now? Was it because he’d held his own in front of her and promised to protect me? She’d seemed more upset by that than anything else, really.
All of this only proved one thing: like Morgan had said, Irene was unpredictable.
“What changed her mind?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
Miss Delilah shrugged as she wiggled her fingers into one glove, then the other.
“What does it matter to you? You wanted to get out. I assume you remember where the front door is. Or do you want me to actually walk you out?”
I think it was when she raised an amused eyebrow at me that it dawned on me. I’d had the feeling of freedom for a couple minutes already, and I felt much better for it, but until that very instant, it had not occurred to me that I could do the very thing I’d been craving since Morgan’s birthday party: I could walk out of the mansion. And as soon as I realized that, I heard myself blurt out, “I can’t.”
Miss Delilah’s eyebrow climbed a little higher, and her lips curled into a mocking grin.
“You can’t?” she repeated. “Oh, I assure you, you most certainly can. Nothing is stopping you, least of all me.”
I shook my head. I could hardly believe what I was saying, but at the same time, I couldn’t say anything different.
“I can’t just… leave. I’m not dressed for the weather, and my things…” They were nothing more than excuses, of course. Only one thing mattered. “I should at least say goodbye to Morgan.”
She chuckled, her grin deepening a little more.
“Oh, Angelina. You are perfect. I couldn’t have picked any better.”
I was still trying to process what that could mean when she moved—and by ‘moved’ I mean she did that burst of speed thing, so that one moment she was three feet away from me, and in less time than it took me to blink, she was leaning over me, her hands clutching the arms of the chair on either side of me, boxing me in as she invaded my personal space. I leaned back instinctively, but even so her face remained inches from mine, close enough that her eyes filled my vision.
“Don’t tell him I was here,” she said, her voice low, vibrating in its intensity. She was compelling me again. “Don’t tell him you are free to go.”
She moved again. Half a blink, and she was already at the entrance to the room, her heels clicking on the floor. I all but stumbled as I stood from my chair and had to put a hand to the wall to hold myself upright, but I managed to go after her so I could call out before she left the mansion, “What… what did you do that for?”
She paused, one hand on the door handle, and looked back toward me. She considered me for a few seconds, and something crossed her features that I’d never seen there before, a vulnerability that didn’t mesh with the image I had
of her—both the image I’d formed of her before I knew she was a vampire, and after.
“Because I love my brother very much,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear. “And all I want is for him to be happy again.”
And with that non-answer, she left. I mean, it was an answer, and I believed her, but it didn’t answer my question. What did me being able to tell him she’d come back and freed me have to do with Morgan being happy? What did it have to do with anything? It was just another move in her game, and once again I was nothing more than a pawn being told what to do. I was so tired of it. I wanted out of his game. I wanted out, period.
And I could walk out. I even did walk out. After she’d closed the door behind her, I went to it, opened it, and stepped outside. I was wearing ballet flats and a cotton shirt that were fine inside the mansion, but not so much in the cold January air. I couldn’t have cared less. I rubbed my hands over my arms to keep myself warm and stayed on the top step, where the rain had not reached, and I just… breathed. New York’s air doesn’t really compare favorably to what you’d breathe in the middle of unspoiled countryside, but right then, each gulp of air was like cool, crystalline water after a long stay in the desert. I drank it down with my eyes half closed—drank down sheer freedom.
And then, when I’d had enough, when my teeth started chattering together and I couldn’t quite feel my cheeks anymore, I stepped back inside and closed the door behind me.
I wasn’t ready to leave. Not quite yet.
*
With my face numb from the cold and goose bumps all over my body, I made a beeline for the kitchen. A tall latte just on the edge of being scalding was exactly right to warm me up. It didn’t do much, however, to calm my raging thoughts.