by Casey Wyatt
I snagged a pastry from his plate and broke it into little bits for the birds. Worry fluttered inside my chest like the sparrows’ wings as they fought for crumbs. “I don’t know why you bother with human servants. They could discover what we are. And why you continue to bother with food confounds me.”
I flicked a crusty bit at his face, but it fell short and landed by the chair leg. A sparrow hopped over and nabbed it before flying away.
He ignored my rude gesture. “Nonsense. They are thralls in my service, unable to betray us.”
“But they aren’t us. Don’t you want a Family of your own someday?” The words slipped from my mouth with watery ease. I’d said them before.
Time will have its way. That’s what Future Jonathan had said.
Jonathan snorted and flicked to the next page, the motion displaying the front page more clearly. I snuck a glance at the newspaper in an attempt to verify the year.
Ah, July 1902. The newspaper headline declared: “Anticipation for Bertie’s Coronation.” The coronation of Bertie, aka King Edward VII aka Prince Albert, was in August. Without thinking, I leaned closer.
Jonathan, taking it as a sign of interest, snagged my hand and brought my knuckles to his lips. “I don’t need a Family. I have you.”
I snatched my hand away and stepped backward out of his reach. “No, you don’t.”
It had been over a century, and I still remained pissed about what he and my father had done to me. Slipping into the time stream hadn’t changed the sentiment.
I continued. “You may like to pretend we’re a happy couple, but it’s a fairy tale built on blackmail and falsehoods.” Tears built in the corners of my eyes. “I can’t live like this. Sheltered and pampered. At least before I had my siblings to talk to, familiar servants, and I could travel. Here, I’m a pet. Your pretty little songbird.”
“Who no longer sings.” He tutted before taking another sip of tea.
Far as I was concerned, Jonathan had no right to grump at me about singing or anything really. To save my human family, I’d agreed to be his wife. At no point had I agreed to become a vampire or live like a cloistered nun in the south of France.
“Damn right.” Balling my fists, I stomped into the bedroom, kicking through scattered clothes. I raised my fist. “This caged bird doesn’t sing.”
But she would perform on stage and take her clothes off. Just not yet.
I slammed the washroom door with a solid boom.
Boom is right.
That day was a turning point. I didn’t know it at the time, but after our argument Jonathan began to lay the groundwork for the Family we have today. And for the foundation of the burlesque company.
“Oui, my pet. The message is clear. You are bored and I am to blame.” I could hear his irritation through the door and I grinned. “I promise that when I return, I will address the situation. Can you wait another few months? Then I will remedy my oversight.”
And, there it was—my history taking shape right before me.
In two months’ time, he would return from India, decision made and property bought for our first theater venture. He thought that if he embarrassed me on stage I would relent and accept him.
Little did he know that it would backfire in the most spectacular fashion.
“Fine. I’m taking a bath.” I cranked up the water and waited for the claw-footed tub to fill. I rubbed my wrist, confirming the cuff was there. It had camouflaged itself against my skin. Tapping it, I whispered, “Tell me exactly where I need to go.”
Nothing happened for a nail biting minute. A grainy satellite image appeared, displaying a building. Shaped like a smile set against a green lawn, I’d know it anywhere.
Son of a beehive. Really? My family’s estate in England. Of course, the cuff might have chosen the image because it meant something to me. I doubted the ship was conveniently buried in my childhood home’s backyard.
Sliding into the tub, I shut off the water. Inspiration struck. “Can you deliver the same information to Ian’s cuff?”
A smiley emoticon appeared along with an hourglass. It would take time but, yes. Even if my Ian was in the future, at least he’d know where I’d gone.
Somewhat relieved, I stared skyward. Hang in there, Vala. Momma will be home soon.
“WHAT IS THIS SHIT, Charity?” Jay banged open the bathroom door.
I cracked open my eyelids and blinked a few times, recalling where and when I was. I must have dozed off in the cool water. Then I remembered. I needed to finagle passage to England. I had to find the cure. Save the colony. Hold Vala in my arms again. Had my message to Ian gone through? The cuff remained silent.
“Don’t gape at me.” My best friend stood over the tub, hands on his hips, fire in his eyes. When I didn’t respond fast enough, he pulled the plug, delivering a brace of chilled air over my skin.
“Blast it, Jay. Give me a chance to get out before you start yelling at me.”
Jay’s pinched mouth and furrowed eyebrows communicated his level of anger. In modern terms, DEFCON four, ready to reach five. “Did you ask Jonathan to take me to India?”
Crap on a cracker. I did a mental rewind, searching for an answer. What had Old Me done way back when? Then it clicked.
“I thought it would make you happy to go home.”
“Of course, I’d like to see my family. But did it ever occur to you what they’ll think? I’ve been gone twenty years!” He handed me a towel and left to wait in the bedroom. Even though he’d seen me naked a zillion times, he wasn’t a perv.
“And?” I knew where this was headed, but in this case I had to play along.
I slid into my silk robe and sat at my vanity. One look in the mirror and I wanted to turn away. The water had done scary things to my hair. I grabbed a brush then set it aside. Brushing curly hair was always a bad idea. Except in this time period, no one cared.
“I haven’t aged. Not one gray hair, not one wrinkle. Do you think they won’t notice?”
“Of course no—”
“Don’t say it. We both know the truth.” Jay folded his arms then unfolded them, his hands resembling a marionette. “They will think I am an Asura, there to steal their souls.”
Asura equals demon, for those following along.
“I am sure they won’t think that. Can’t you add some gray to your hair?” I opened a pot of bleaching cream and dabbed some on my fingers. Before he could stop me, I swiped some goop along the hairline of his temples.
“What are doing? Stop that.” He tried to bat me away to no avail. I was too quick for him.
I grabbed the wet edge of the towel and blotted away the cream. It wasn’t perfect but unless someone got up close and personal, it would work.
“Look how distinguished you look. No wrinkles necessary. You can blame your dewy skin on the moist English climate.”
His family was unaware that we were in France, living a hedonistic lifestyle like a bunch of horny Romans. I wasn’t the only one getting action every night. Jay enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh as much as I did.
Fun fact, he’s still a bit of a man-whore.
“Highly doubtful.” He leaned over to peer at his image in the mirror. The extra few moments he spent admiring himself told me he approved but wouldn’t admit it.
“Get yourself a turtleneck and we can call you Professor,” I teased.
He shot me a strange look. “Turtleneck?”
“Uh, never mind. When do you leave?”
“This afternoon. Thanks for the warning.”
And on that note, it was time to get dressed. I rang for my maid. “I need to get decent. I’ll be there to wave you both off.”
He scowled and left the room.
In case anyone is wondering why I didn’t tell him the truth, here’s the reason. That trip to India would be the last time he’d see his parents alive. I know that memory sustained him through our long decades together and everything that came after. What kind of friend would I be if I robbed him of th
at experience?
We’d be together soon enough. I could do this on my own.
Doubt crept over me, its tentacles tickling my spine. But what about Jonathan?
By the time he returned from India, I’d be gone. Or at least Present Me would be. Hopefully Old Me wouldn’t know what I’d done in her/my body. Geesh. Time travel is so twisty. In any case, I refused to let time have its way on this one. At least I had to try and warn him.
I grabbed paper and a pen from my writing desk. After a few seconds of trying to write, I realized I had to shake the ink down. My, my how times had changed. It was weird that I complained on Mars about how much paper Prior wasted. And now, in 1902, I was grateful that I could have a Marty McFly moment and leave Jonathan a warning and an apology.
I hated the idea that he would meet his end and not know how much I regretted it. Or how much I cared. I knew I couldn’t save him but I had to try. I penned a thoughtful, yet carefully worded letter, sharing my feelings. And telling him to watch his back with Thalia.
I hoped it was vague enough with the specifics that I wouldn’t break the space-time continuum.
Task complete, I put the pen down and rubbed my aching hand while I studied my bedroom with new eyes. Once, I hated its sunny décor, the Louis-style extravagant furniture and the gilt everything. I despised the pastoral views and the endless rows of fields and grapevines.
The village, whose name I could never be bothered to memorize, Saint Something-or-Other, was nothing more than a throwback to the Middle Ages. Provincial and boring, I was too young and too newly created to appreciate its charms.
Time has a way of creating nostalgia and, in my case, opening my eyes to how lucky I’d been. The world outside that window—the village, the fields—they were on borrowed time.
War was coming. While Jonathan’s mini-palace would survive the first one, it wouldn’t be so lucky the second time around. Ordnance would devastate the building and the fields.
At least that’s what I’d heard. Jay was the one to keep track of our past. Like many things, I couldn’t bother to think about it, not until I was forced to.
And why should I have? We moved every few decades from necessity. We didn’t want anyone to notice that we didn’t age. We didn’t want to be tied down.
The other reason we forgot our pasts was the Vampire Reality Distortion Field. We decide to substitute reality with one of our own making. Living for as long as we do, it’s better not to get too attached to people or places, so we tuck away our pasts and create new lives.
Looking around, I realized how much I missed the little things. Like the scented paper Jonathan had purchased in Paris. The exquisite jars holding creams and perfumes. Handmade clothes that were works of art. Granted, they were hell to wear, hence the need for a lady’s maid. In the early 1900s, society women wore corsets and changed six times a day.
Silk fluttered over my wrist. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed admiring the embroidery on my scarlet robe—dainty vines and blooming flowers surrounded by colorful beaded butterflies. I used to sit on the balcony and study it until my eyes went wonky. It was one of the few wedding gifts from Jonathan that I allowed myself to enjoy. While I could scorn my husband, Jonathan was also my Sire. I needed to show appreciation for his largesse from time to time.
In those early years, I never understood how patient he’d been with me. That understanding came much later as we grew the troupe, and I heard the horror stories from other vampires.
Depending on the Sire’s proclivities, they might be raped, beaten, and starved, making them a danger to humans.
Jonathan never once forced me to have sex with him, though we did it on our wedding night because I believed it was my duty as a wife. That was before he turned me into a vampire. Then, all bets were off.
Jonathan used to joke that when he drained my blood during my making, he’d pulled every ounce of obedience from my body. He wasn’t too far from the truth.
Once I’d learned about my father’s betrayal, becoming a vampire only enhanced my rage. And, boy did I carry anger bigger than the Hope Diamond around my neck. Because I couldn’t avenge myself on my duplicitous father, I took it out on Jonathan. Not that he was blameless. He was the reason my father handed me over after losing everything gambling.
At some point, Jonathan must have resigned himself to my obstinate behavior, because he never punished me for my refusals by using violence or deprivation. If anything, I was the one who punished and deprived myself. I could have learned to love him, allowed him to comfort me or be my friend. But I didn’t.
The maid tapped on the door, ending my musings.
Folding the letter, I sealed the pages in an envelope, then wrote his name on the front. I’d leave it on his desk for him to find when he returned. He could choose what steps to take, if any. Knowing him, he’d choose death again, just to get back at me.
I dropped my robe as the maid approached with my underclothes. I smiled, thinking about Jonathan spiting me. It would serve me right.
After what seemed like an hour of attaching stockings to garters, tugging strings, shifting layers, and fastening buttons the size of Tic-Tacs, my maid Hélène stepped away and tilted her head.
Perspiration dotted her temples, and I could hear the flutter of her heartbeat as the blood rushed through her veins. Satisfied, she fished a purple velvet box from her apron pocket.
“There, Madame.” Hélène handed me earrings she’d fetched earlier from the safe in Jonathan’s dressing closet. He didn’t trust me not to sell my jewelry to finance an escape. “You are ready to tackle the day, non?”
“Thanks to your expert ministrations.” I fastened the earrings, their heft tugging at my lobes.
They weighed a ton and cost a fortune. Pearl teardrops that dangled from platinum bobs studded with diamonds. Only the best jewelry for me. Another way Jonathan showed me affection. He lavished me with gifts and trinkets. Until I finally put a stop to it.
“Merci.” She blushed. “I only enhance the beauty that is already there.”
Her delicate features and slender frame trembled under my scrutiny. Young and innocent, she’d only recently joined the household. Two faint punctures peeked from under her high collar. Jonathan didn’t allow anyone access to the house, let alone me, unless they were thralls loyal to him.
I wondered if he’d slept with her to cement the deal. Not that I cared, mind you. Old Me had been a bit jealous because that’s how contrary and confused I was back then. I may have, at one point, insisted he touch no other female than me. I’m sure he laughed.
“Shall I call a coach?” she asked hanging my silk robe.
“Coach?” The handbag? Duh. Horse and carriage. Geez, I needed to keep up with the when and where of it.
“To say goodbye to the Master and Mr. Jay.” The blush returned, only more furious and guilty. Ah, it was Jay then.
That horndog.
I suppressed the smirk that twitched my lips. It would only embarrass Hélène. And, no, not every French person is hornier than a jackrabbit. The English loved to bandy that idea about but only because they were jealous. Trust me on that one.
“Not yet,” I said, grabbing my envelope. “Has Jonathan left yet?”
“He said he would see you at the train station in his private car.” Hélène curtseyed, which was totally unnecessary, then departed with an armful of dirty clothes.
Jonathan’s study was on the western side of the palace. I crossed from what I thought of as my side, the East Wing, past the grand staircase separating the wings, and over to his side.
There were several studies—the public one was located on the ground floor. That’s where the muckety-mucks met with Jonathan to do business. It was suitably impressive, displaying priceless antiques and other treasures he’d acquired through his lengthy life. The mortals had no clue and thought he was the descendent of lost royalty. Jonathan did nothing to disabuse them of that theory.
I didn’t want the public study. I head
ed into the West Wing and up a hidden flight of stairs that led to his private chambers. It crossed my mind, as I twisted the elaborate door handle, that I hadn’t forgotten the layout. Funny how the mind works.
Fresh-cut flowers scented the air along with the lingering odor of pipe smoke. My nose twitched, hating the aroma. It reminded me too much of my father’s smell when he’d come home after a night on the town. My mother refused to go to bed until he returned—only so she could sniff her disapproval at him. The inevitable arguing would occur with the regularity of a train schedule.
Due to the unpleasant association, Jonathan respected my sensibilities and only smoked in his study.
Heading to the desk, I surveyed the room, alert for the best place to prop the note. Servants were not allowed to touch anything on his desk. I, however, did not have that restriction. If my persnickety memory served, Old Me didn’t spend much time in here, largely because it was his sanctum sanctorum.
But I also avoided the room because he liked to display trophies from our past together thus far. The bronze bust from Greece, Fabergé eggs from Russia, priceless Chinese porcelain, and a mortal’s teeth from Venice. That trip effectively ended our world travels for a while. We’d been around the world a few dozen times. The tooth incident was the last straw for me, and not because I felt bad for the mortal.
The guy had had it coming. He tried to rob me and paid the price for his stupidity. Darwin’s theory in action—idiots die first, preferably before they reproduce.
Jonathan kept the teeth in a lidded jar on his desk. He said they made him smile.
I frowned at the jar and the memory. No matter. Time was not on my side. I had a mission to accomplish. The Ancient’s warning about the time stream wasn’t forgotten.
Wheeling out the broad leather desk chair, I sat down, the width accommodating my skirts. The surface was neatly organized with papers in a precise pile. The pens were lined up like a row of soldiers in ranks. Books were stacked by size and sorted by color, then broken into two piles on either side of the desk.
Oh my God, what kind of person does that?