by Kallysten
“Angelina…”
“I’m not asking you to say anything,” I said quickly. “The whole point of me leaving was to give you space. I’m not going to demand anything from you now. I just…”
I didn’t know how to finish. Saying ‘I just wish it wouldn’t take you so long to heal’ seemed rather hypocritical. And insensitive. And a host of other not-so-pleasant things. I wanted to be better than that, better than a needy, clingy woman. I wanted to be patient. It wasn’t easy.
“For what it’s worth,” Morgan said softly, “I appreciate it. I have enough people trying to tell me how to live my life.”
By ‘enough people’ I assumed he meant Miss Delilah and Irene. They both certainly took as much metaphorical space in a room as half a dozen people.
“I’ll let you go now,” he added after a second. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t too upset.”
I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Does it matter if I’m upset?”
“Of course it matters.”
That was the perfect opening, wasn’t it? The perfect moment to tell him that I was, in fact, upset, and that I wanted him back in my life. After he’d complimented me for not trying to manipulate him, however, that seemed like the entire wrong thing to say.
So all I said was goodbye. I listened to him say goodbye in return. I waited for him to hang up first. And only then did I say, “I miss you.”
There was, of course, no answer.
*
Another couple of weeks passed. We were back to texting once a day, although now that I knew he was well out of reach, it felt very different.
I started looking for a new job. I had enough money set aside that I wouldn’t have to worry before some time and could have extended my sabbatical, but it wasn’t money I needed. It was a distraction. Going out with my friends was fine, but they had jobs, and they couldn’t be out every night. That meant I had a lot of time to think. I’ll let you guess whom I was thinking about.
My first interview for a personal assistant position went fine until the moment I realized I had made a mistake: I hadn’t come up with a good explanation for why I had left the employ of Miss Delilah. I stammered something about Miss Delilah spending a lot of time abroad and how I preferred a position that would keep me state-side. The woman’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as did her smile. She asked if it was all right for her to contact Miss Delilah for a reference. I said yes.
I said yes to four more potential employers—after coming up with a better end-of-job story—before it dawned on me that maybe Miss Delilah wasn’t giving me the glowing recommendation I felt she owed me. After receiving that fifth ‘thanks but no thanks’ phone call, I was annoyed enough to throw caution to the wind and text her.
You told me I was a good PA. You could do me the courtesy of saying the same thing when you’re asked about me.
Whatever answer I expected to get, Tomorrow, 4pm. I’ll send a car, was not it.
I didn’t acknowledge the summons. And it was a summons, I had no illusions about it. Miss Delilah didn’t ask me to come for a visit. She ordered me. Compulsion didn’t work with written words, but I’m sure in her mind there was no way I would dare refuse.
Refusing was all I thought about for the rest of that day. It was what I dreamed about that night. And the next morning, I found myself making plans to avoid the summons. The easiest thing of all would be to simply refuse to answer when the chauffeur came to pick me up. Or I could leave my apartment and go somewhere in town, shopping, to the movies, or even for a run. Good luck to a chauffeur finding me in a city that big.
The issue with that plan was that, after five years of working with her, I knew Miss Delilah. And I knew she wouldn’t stop there. She wanted to see me. Refusing her ‘invitation’ would not stop her. She would send the car again, without warning next time. Or maybe she’d come to me. I wouldn’t have put it past her to have someone follow me and inform her of my movements so that she could show up when I was at a restaurant or cafe waiting for one of my friends or even when I was running in the park.
Ten minutes before four, I was resigned to the fact that hiding wouldn’t help and I might as well meet her. And all right, no need to pretend I wasn’t curious about what she wanted. Scared, certainly, but also curious.
The car came. She’d sent a limo. Getting into it made me flash back to the night of Morgan’s birthday bash, and suddenly my throat was tightening for a whole different reason.
Going to the building by car was odd. I’d always taken the subway to get there. Watching it in the distance, the familiar shape so distinguishable in the New York landscape, it struck me just how much my life had changed since I’d first set foot in that cathedral of glass and steel. Going back now that I felt so different… I can’t say it was pleasant.
And all right, knowing I was on my way to talk to a vampire who had shown no qualms about using me as a pawn in the past did not make things easier.
Rather than leaving me in front of the building, the limo dipped into the underground garage, and the chauffeur came out to open the door and direct me to the private elevator, the one that bypassed the office floors and went straight up to Miss Delilah’s penthouse. The same one we’d taken down the night of the party. More flashback jitters.
I climbed in, unbuttoning my coat as the doors closed and the elevator started up without me needing to press a button. As it rose to the penthouse, it occurred to me that I didn’t know where I was supposed to go. When I had come up to meet Miss Delilah before, she had always met me in her dressing room, right off her bedroom. Was that where I was supposed to go today, too?
I can’t deny that, the closer I got to my destination, the more nervous I became. Suddenly, I wished I’d told someone, anyone, that I was meeting her, in case something happened to me. No, not anyone. I should have told Morgan. Not that he’d have been able to do anything about it from wherever he was, but maybe he could have asked his sister not to do anything detrimental to my health…
I pulled out my cell phone as the elevators door opened and sent in a quick text.
Guess who invited me to her penthouse today? Although invited might not be the most accurate word...
I pocketed the phone again and looked up. The flower room, as I had nicknamed it, was the same as ever, with fresh bouquets standing on round tables in between the four doors opposite the elevator. One of those doors was open, one I had never been through. I could hear faint music coming from it. Presumably, that was the way I was supposed to go. I took a deep breath, steeled myself for what was to come, and stepped forward.
The first room reminded me of the library at Morgan’s mansion. It was smaller, but all four walls were covered in shelves, and if they weren’t as packed as those at the mansion, they were still well furnished. Three comfortable-looking armchairs were set in the center of the room around a low table. A door, almost directly opposite the one I’d come through, was open. I crossed the room and went to it.
The next room, again, was a new one for me, and yet familiar. In the mansion, it was what Irene had called the music room. A baby grand piano held the place of honor in the center of the room, and I froze in the doorway when I saw who sat there, her fingers dancing over the keyboard and drawing out light notes. Irene’s eyes were closed as she played, but I had a feeling she knew I was there. Very slowly, I started to turn, but a cluck of tongue stopped me.
“Come on, girl,” Irene said, her eyes still closed. “You didn’t come all this way to leave so soon. Take a seat. Lilah went to fetch refreshments.”
It wasn’t compulsion. I could have left. And then what? If I did, they’d be able to catch me before I exited the building. I swallowed a sigh and walked in.
Half a dozen loveseats were set around the piano. I sat down on the one farthest from Irene—not that it’d save me if she suddenly had murderous intentions, but at least I’d see her coming. Unable to quite keep my gaze on her, I let my eyes wander around the room.
&nb
sp; One side had a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window, but sheer, gauzy curtains partially hid the view of the city at our feet. A thick carpet covered the floor. The framed artwork on the walls consisted of sheet music, some of it looking fairly old. I was squinting at the nearest one, trying to decipher the name scribbled in a corner, when Miss Delilah walked in, carrying a tray. The annoyed look she threw in my direction gave me a jolt.
“Lina,” she said curtly. “Was it really necessary for you to tell Morgan I’d asked you for tea?”
I had to lick my lips before I could manage to reply.
“Is that what this is about?” I said, trying and failing to sound unconcerned. “You didn’t say why you wanted me to come by. What was I supposed to think?”
She didn’t answer. Setting the tray on a coffee table near the piano, she served tea. Except that, it wasn’t tea at all. She only filled two of the cups, and I wasn’t upset in the slightest not to be offered a drink of that thick, red liquid that could hardly have been anything other than blood. She offered one of the cups to Irene, then sat in a loveseat next to her, from which she could see both Irene and me.
“Tell me something,” Miss Delilah said after taking a small sip. “Why did you leave the mansion? Did he ask you to?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Irene tutted and threw a sideways look at Miss Delilah. “Why don’t you compel her and be done with it?” she said, barely lifting her lips from her cup. “This is all tedious.”
Miss Delilah let out a little sigh. “I thought we had agreed compelling her wouldn’t help anything at this point, Mother.”
“No, darling. You agreed with yourself on that point. I have yet to find a situation in which compulsion doesn’t help.”
I should have remained out of it. I should have held my tongue and remembered that Irene had tried to kill me once, and there was no reason why she wouldn’t try again. After all, Morgan had said he’d protect me from her, but he wasn’t there, as I was acutely aware.
But there or not, he still dominated my thoughts, and I couldn’t let Irene’s remark pass.
“Really?” I said in my sweetest voice, drawing both their gazes to me. “So you think compelling Morgan to forget about Melody for four centuries actually helped him?”
If Miss Delilah remained poker faced, it was all too obvious that Irene didn’t appreciate my question. Her head jerked up and her eyes narrowed.
“One day,” she said in a low voice, “that tongue of yours will get you in trouble.”
I’d figured as much long ago, but it was still unsettling to hear it confirmed.
“Whether she’s impudent or not,” Miss Delilah said, “you have to admit she’s not entirely wrong.”
Irene’s sharp gaze moved from me to Miss Delilah, and it was a relief not to be the focus of her annoyance anymore.
“Honestly, Lilah. By now I’m used to Morgan taking their side, but not you too, please.”
I needed a couple of seconds to realize what she meant by ‘their’ side. Their, as in the humans’. A cold shiver ran down my back.
“I’m not taking her side,” Miss Delilah said, and that wasn’t all that reassuring either. “I’ve heard you say before that if you had to do it over—”
“Let’s move on,” Irene demanded in a deceptively mild voice.
I had a feeling ‘Mother’ did not enjoy dwelling on her past mistakes. How very… human of her. Not that I was about to point it out to her face. I was reckless, maybe, but not suicidal.
“Yes, let’s do that,” Miss Delilah agreed, and turned her attention back to me. “Please answer the question, Lina. Everything depends on this. Did he ask you to leave?”
I tried to recall the last time she’d asked me to do something and bothered to say ‘please’. I couldn’t actually remember. Maybe that was why I answered. Positive reinforcement and all that.
“He didn’t. I left because I thought that was the best thing to do.”
A soft clinking drew my attention back to Irene. She was tapping a long nail to the side of her cup, observing me through narrowed eyes, her head tilted to one side. To say she looked exactly like what she was—a predator—would be an understatement.
“How was that ‘best’?” she asked coolly.
It still wasn’t any of her business, but I felt like I had pushed her enough for now. Miss Delilah had taken my side—more or less—once, but she might not do it again if I kept blundering on purpose.
“It was best because he’s not ready. You told him to move on, but it’s not that easy. He’s been torturing himself for twenty years over their deaths. He’s not just going to get over it because you threw me at him.”
They exchanged a look, and Miss Delilah nodded once, just barely. What was that about? What were they discussing without a word? I wanted to ask but didn’t get a chance to do so.
“He has been torturing himself for twenty years, yes,” Miss Delilah said after taking a last sip from her cup that left her upper lip stained red. She licked the trace of blood off and continued. “But do you really think it’s best for him to be alone in the place where he met his last… victim? What is that, if not torture?”
The question took me aback. I’d always thought leaving would be a way for him to get away from the very bed where it had happened, and that he was going to Hawaii to mourn his dead lover. I’d imagined him on the beach, letting go of his pain bit by bit.
Now, though… now that with just a few words she’d raised doubt inside me, I imagined him standing in front of a mirror, looking at what he’d said he saw in there: the monster he believed himself to be. Back to torturing himself.
Something must have showed on my face, because Miss Delilah sighed.
“Does it still feel like leaving the mansion was the best thing for you to do?”
I frowned at her, curling my hands in my lap.
“If you didn’t want me to leave, why did you remove the compulsion that forced me to stay?”
“Because you being forced to stay was the only thing he would talk about. That was his answer to everything. He didn’t deny he was attracted to you, but he always countered it by ‘If she could leave, she would’. And you proved him right.”
“But that’s not…”
I meant to say that was not why I’d left, and that I had explained to him my reasoning, and that he’d accepted it. He knew how much I cared about him. I more than cared, as I had told him one last time before leaving. Had he played along so that I’d leave as he’d been so sure I would?
I didn’t say any of it, though. Right then, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out and checked the message.
Are you still there? Are you all right?
At that moment, the question was almost laughable.
Are *you* all right? I wrote back.
“Was that Morgan?” Miss Delilah asked.
As I gave a single nod, I kept the phone clutched in my hands, waiting for a reply. It didn’t come.
At the piano, Irene was apparently done drinking. She held up her cup. I wondered if she expected me to take it, but after a second or two Miss Delilah stood, took the cup, and returned it, along with her own, to the tray.
“So,” Irene said, her gaze on the keyboard as she started to play a slow, unfamiliar piece. “Here we are, three grown women…” She threw me a quick look. “More or less…” Her eyes returned to the piano, and her rhythm picked up. “Discussing a silly man’s inability to take care of himself. Since we’ve established he can’t, in fact, be trusted to do that, the question is, what are we going to do about it?”
I didn’t like that I was suddenly part of this ‘we’. So far, I’d been their pawn. I had no doubt that, change of pronouns notwithstanding, I still was.
“Seeing how he didn’t appreciate your meddling before, maybe not doing anything might be best,” I said, even though I didn’t think it was true. Meddling might be too much, but maybe some support or comfort…
“Are you saying,
” Miss Delilah asked with a sly grin, “that you don’t want to go to Hawaii?”
I am weak.
I am a weak, weak woman.
Just a second earlier, I’d been advising that we leave Morgan alone. And now Miss Delilah dangled a trip in front of me, and I was—metaphorically speaking—already salivating.
Or maybe it’s not that much of a metaphor. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go back to Morgan first and would let him come to me instead, but it’s not as though I didn’t want to be with him again. And now that I had an excuse, now that they’d put in my head that he was torturing himself instead of healing, now that I understood that Miss Delilah had probably stopped me from getting a job in anticipation of this very thing…
What can I say? I am weak.
Also it was the end of February and in the low twenties. You’d have gone to Hawaii too if given the chance to escape winter, promises or no promises.
The limo took me home and waited in front of my apartment building. I packed my suitcase, sent a couple of messages to some friends so they’d know I was out of town, and was back in the street in under a half hour. The limo was waiting. It took me to Miss Delilah’s jet.
I remembered being excited that time I’d taken it to Paris. Now I was excited but also terrified. What would Morgan think of me barging in on him? What if he was upset? What if he didn’t want to see me? Miss Delilah had given me an address, but all it would take was for Morgan to refuse to open the door, and what would I do then?
It was a long flight.
*
If you asked me to tell you what the airport looked like, or even about the cab ride that took me to Morgan’s property, I’d be hard pressed to give you any details. For one thing, I was exhausted, both because it was past midnight in my internal clock and because I’d been worrying for hours and wearing myself down. For another, I was too busy trying to figure out what I’d say—and trying to imagine what he’d reply—to take in my surroundings. The cab driver attempted to make small talk, asking me where I was from, how long I was going to stay, and things of that nature, but if I answered at all, it was absentmindedly, and I’m sure he must have thought I was very rude.