by Casey Wyatt
Even though the table was round, my father commanded it like the earl he was. Each man leaned toward him when he spoke.
His red hair, a bit faded since I’d last seen him, captured the dim light, reflecting oranges and yellows—almost like a flame. An aura encased him, one I had never seen before. The soul-deep fatigue in his eyes captured my sympathy.
Cards were drawn, bets made, hands folded, money lost. I watched, fascinated at the ease with which mortals gave away their wealth as if the sun wouldn’t rise the next day. As if there were no one else they could hurt with their avarice.
I resisted the desire to spit my disgust at them. I watched another round play out. My father beat them easily. The previous hand, he’d lost a modest amount of money. The other men at the table were oblivious that my father was playing them.
Moving closer, I took a place behind the player opposite my father. It was time for him to see me. Placing my hand on the human, I suggested he relinquish his seat so I could play the next game.
“Good game, gentlemen. Who’s up for another round?” my father asked, smoldering cigar dangling from his lips.
“How about me?” I slid into the seat before the other men noticed. Several of them jumped at my sudden appearance.
The cigar dropped on the table, hot ashes singeing the green fabric. The cards fell from the dealer’s hand, landing in a messy pile.
“Charity?” my father said as if testing my name on his lips.
“Leave us,” I commanded. The table was vacated in under ten seconds.
“How? Why?” Surprise caught him by the throat. After downing an entire glass of whiskey, he tried again. “You look well.”
“I believe ‘unchanged’ is the word you’re searching for. What did you think would happen when I received the Devil’s kiss?” I swapped chairs quick as lightning, landing next to him.
To his credit, he didn’t jump. He seemed rather accustomed to strange displays of speed.
“I won’t apologize,” he said, jaw in a hard line. “Why are you here?”
I won’t feed into the fiery-tempered redhead stereotype, but I will say, he and I shared stubbornness. A thousand mules couldn’t pull an apology from his lips—believe me, Mother had tried—not unless it would net him something in return.
“And I won’t thank you either,” I said. “I’m here because I heard the braying laugh of a familiar jackass.”
He retrieved the cigar and relit it, chuckling under his breath. “That’s my girl.”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you want?” He dropped a match in his drink, snuffing it out with a fizzy hiss.
A valid question. “Why don’t you look older?”
A small bead of sweat trailed down his temple. He stopped mid-puff on his cigar. “What’s it been, two decades? I look rather good.”
I drew closer and sniffed the air, hoping to rattle him a bit. I wasn’t buying the vanity act. He would be in his late sixties by now. His red hair should be white or at least a faded yellow. Adding to my suspicion, he didn’t flinch.
“I could kill you, old man,” I said in a low voice for his ears only. “In fact, I could dispatch every person in this room before you could call for help.”
“Do it.” He puffed the cigar, blowing smoke in my face. “The world thinks I’m dead already. Carriage accident if you must know. It made all the papers. Hadn’t you heard?”
I wasn’t about to admit that my husband hid my letters. Or that Jonathan kept me ignorant.
“God! You haven’t changed. It’s always fuck everybody else.” If he faked his death, that meant Edwin was the Earl.
“I made sure to take out a hefty insurance policy too.”
“Right. Because money washes away your sins.”
“Jonathan promised I would never have to see you again. Why isn’t he keeping you on a shorter leash?”
The nasty curl of his lips and harsh set of his eyes made me want to both punch him and cry. I always knew my father didn’t care. He’d gambled me away. To hear it out loud stung anyway.
A bitter taste coated my tongue. I wasn’t going to let him hurt me again. He was a waste of a human being. I took another good, hard look. The pallor of his skin, the “I’m untouchable attitude” and that ageless look of suspended animation meant . . . holy shit.
He wasn’t quite human anymore.
My father stilled under my scrutiny. His eyes widened in surprise, understanding my discovery. He pushed his chair away from the table. As much as I’d like to let him scurry away like a rat, that wasn’t happening.
I stopped him with an iron grip around his wrist. “You’re not leaving until you tell me who made you into a blood slave. A thrall.”
“Let me go, girl.” He slumped against the chair, defeated.
“Is this the part where you tell me there are bigger things happening? Things I wouldn’t understand?”
“Don’t sass-talk your father.” The heat in his words rang fake.
“You stopped deserving that title when you gave me away like a prize horse!” I banged my fist, knocking over the glasses. Faint murmurs spread around the room. A piano played a jaunty tune.
“There are things you don’t need to know. Things that are dangerous to us both.” The earl flexed his fingers under my grip. “You can let go. I can’t outrun you.”
I dropped fang and drew his hand to my mouth, the tip piercing his thumb. My tongue swiped at the droplet. I spit the blood out and released his wrist. “Blech. You taste like revenant. Who is your master?”
“You’d never believe me if I told you.” He brought his thumb to his mouth, staunching the wound. Men were such babies. It was a pinprick, and he acted like I opened a vein.
“Try me.”
“No. I cannot give you information,” he said almost woodenly.
Rapidly blinking, his eyes clouded milky white.
When he spoke again, another voice spoke through him. “I cannot provide the answers you seek, Charity. My master has forbidden it. Go home to your husband before you get killed.”
A beefy palm clamped on my shoulders. The bouncer had returned and this time he wouldn’t be swayed by my powers. Like my father, his eyes had gone the same dead color. As I stood to leave, a hundred pairs of eyes contained the same possessed look.
Whoever was behind the hive-mind display was the most powerful revenant I’d ever encountered. I may have been friends with Harmony and lived with a group of the undead, but it was painfully obvious that I knew bubkes about revenants.
Group mind control was something scary. Something unexpected. Something dangerous.
“I can take the hint. I know when I’m not wanted.”
A quiet voice spoke, for my ears only. It was my father. Anguish coated his words. “Next time we meet, set me free.”
I didn’t wait for the bouncer to usher me out. The metal door slammed behind me. Locks clicked, one after the other, sealing me outside.
Set me free. I was sure that plea would haunt me for years to come.
THE ENCOUNTER WITH the revenant puppet master preyed on my thoughts for most of the train ride to Belmont Manor. How had I lived so long and never once encountered a revenant overlord?
I would have asked Jonathan except that wasn’t an option for obvious reasons. Besides, I had my own business to conduct. My father’s fate was out of my hands. As pathetic as it was for him to be a slave, I couldn’t help him. If he was still card sharking in some dive in the twenty-first century, then maybe I could do something.
The train’s bell clanged, signaling our arrival at the station. I’d wired ahead and hired a carriage. Since no one was expecting me, they wouldn’t have sent someone to fetch me.
Though, I had to wonder about my brother. With my father out of the picture, he must be the new earl. Would Edwin even recognize me?
Time would soon tell. I only hoped it would be today. I’d been delayed long enough.
To pass the time, I read through the purloined letter stash. I don�
�t know what I expected to find. Grace and Faith regaled me about the latest fashion and shared society gossip. The usual.
Edwin, his letters were harder to decipher. He told me about school and not much else. The last letter in the pile gave me pause, the tone more somber as his graduation approached.
The carriage slowed as we reached the outskirts of the estate. I bundled the letters and enjoyed the scenery. If my heart still beat, it would have sped up as the stone markers for Belmont rose into view.
Like a tourist, I gawked at my childhood home. So much had stayed the same. Sturdy oak trees stood sentinel along the winding road. The lush lawn that went on forever. I hoped the forest behind the estate’s lavish gardens had remained untouched.
When the main house rose on the horizon, I smiled.
No other house in the UK was as lovely and unique. The center building was a rotunda flanked by a curved extension leading to an east and a west wing. From the top down it reminded me of a smile. I admit it, I may have checked it out on Google Earth a time or two.
My mother always complained about the unconventional shape and how my great-grandfather was unhinged. Anything with a whiff of difference made her uncomfortable. Any suggestion of modifying or making it more conventional was shot down by my father, and grandfather while he still lived.
Father was a toad, but he did love the estate. I often wondered if that was the reason my grandfather allowed my parents’ marriage. I’m sure my father’s enormous American pile of money didn’t hurt either.
I wanted to pinch myself at my fortune. Old Me had only returned to England once, when my mother was ill. I found her in the local hospital where, with her dying breath, she cursed me as the devil. I wished the past would stay in the past, except some memories don’t fade easily. Vampire reality distortion has its limits.
The driver deposited me at the front step, then took the carriage around to the servants’ entrance to unload my luggage. As soon as he left, I headed toward the house’s formal walking garden, passing by the west wing. Was the Orangery still there? I hoped so.
According to family legend, the odd layout came to my great-grandfather, Percy Pembridge, in a vision. A shudder of solidarity passed through me. And, not for the first time, I wondered if the vision thing ran in my family, similar to red hair or crooked toes. Not that I have crooked toes.
Naturally, the family told a rationale story about how he was inspired by a love of classical Rome when he built the place. The Romanesque pillars holding up the portico’s rotunda supported the idea.
After trudging for twenty minutes, I made it to the other side of the building. To my relief, the Orangery was still operational. I don’t know why I cared so much. I didn’t need the Vitamin C. But the juice we drank on Mars would have benefited from some orange flavoring.
I wandered the nearby formal garden. Immaculate and manicured, perfect, just as I remembered. Green hedges were artfully shaped into cones or globes. The summer flowers were in bloom, the fragrance dizzying to me after so much time without them.
Heaving a sigh, I savored the sights and sounds of my old life. If I’d remained human, I’d be a middle-aged matron married to a titled man. We’d have a brood of children, one of them a son and heir to my husband’s title and lands. If my husband was a good man, he’d keep his mistresses well hidden so that I wouldn’t be subject to gossip. And he’d keep his vices low-key and wouldn’t lose the family fortune at cards.
Overall, I’d be nothing more than an accessory to my husband with no identity of my own. I would have lived a thoroughly programmed life. One filled with charity work, social events, and managing a huge household. A life designed to enhance and highlight our standing among our peers.
Yuck. So glad I dodged that bullet.
Being a vampire might not be perfect, but it sure beat life as a bird in an ornate and confining cage. I’d never tell Jonathan to his face, but he had saved me from a dreary and repetitive existence. Ian once commented that Jonathan must have seen something in me. A spark that could survive an unconventional life. Returning to the old homestead, I had to agree.
God, I missed Ian and Vala. Soon, we’d be together , and I’d have to be content with that. Thinking any deeper only hurt more.
To maintain focus, I only had to remember my Family covered with the dark, life-ending cracks of the plague. Or the idea that I’d never see my baby again.
An earthy breeze soothed the ache, for now. The whispery rustling of the trees beckoned. It was good to be home.
“Lady d’Aumont? Is that you?” came a chipper male voice. “We weren’t expecting you.”
I plastered a pleasant smile on my face and gave the man a stare. I didn’t need to explain myself to the servants. If I wanted to visit home, I’d visit home. But I’d be remiss, and out of character, if I didn’t acknowledge the sudden arrival.
“Mr. Watson. Indeed, it is. I didn’t intend to cause a stir. It was rude of me not to wire ahead. Is the Earl at home?” The butler, while older, hadn’t changed much. Gray dotted his temples and crow’s feet creased along his eyes, but otherwise, he looked well preserved.
A strange look crept over his face, but he suppressed it with servant-like efficiency. “Of course. He’s out on business. We expect his return in time for tea. Would you like to freshen up in your room? Please follow me.”
Like the butler, my room hadn’t changed much either. Gas lamps replaced candles. And the bedding had been refreshed. It didn’t take long to settle in.
“I chose one of Lady Grace’s gowns. You are both about the same size and it’s still fashionable,” said Agnes, the ladies’ maid, as she extracted an evening dress from the armoire. “It must be nice to be home again, Lady d’Aumont.”
“Yes. I’m happy to see it hasn’t changed much.” I really wanted her to leave me alone.
Only I was expected at dinner which meant donning another outfit. After removing my travel clothes, I waited at my old vanity table wearing a cream-colored silk robe, stockings, corset, and my undergarments.
I could order her out of the room, but I didn’t trust myself to not sound harsh. And any display of odd behavior would circulate among the staff. I needed to stay in character otherwise word would reach Edwin.
Agnes approached with my choice of garment: a soft gray silk underdress with black beaded overlay. The sheer black sleeves reached my elbows and black taffeta crisscrossed over my breasts. The crystal beading and seed pearls on the sleeves and collar caught the light and glittered like dewdrops. It was stunning. Grace always had excellent taste.
I dutifully dropped the robe and allowed her to help me put on the gown. After I stepped into my shoes, she fussed with the buttons, each touch pressing against my spine.
“Will you require anything else?” She offered me black gloves and matching earrings.
I took the earrings and fastened them to my ears. The gloves, I’d put on before heading downstairs. “Thank you, no.”
Agnes gathered my soggy hat and mud-stained clothes for cleaning. “Of course. I’ll be on my way.”
She hadn’t been gone more than a minute when I heard a polite knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said.
Mr. Watson, crisp and efficient as ever, said, “The Earl has requested you join him in his study.”
“Of course. I’ll be there shortly. No need to escort me. I know the way.” I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps, then exited the room. I’m sure he didn’t approve, but since I was the Earl’s sister, he wasn’t going to argue with me.
I exited the room, gloves in hand, and headed in the opposite direction of the east wing, where the dining room was located.
Upon becoming the sixth Earl of Pembridge, Edwin would have taken over my father’s study. As children, we were never allowed inside Father’s private rooms. In fact, we were restricted to only a few locations, our schedules carefully managed.
Each day for one hour, our nanny would clothe us and remind us to be on
our best behavior. Then she paraded us in front of Mother who’d ask us questions about schoolwork, manners, or, the worst, to recite a prayer.
She knew I hated prayers with a passion, so I would be picked most often.
Father was frequently away managing business. As an American, he was baffled by the one hour a day ritual. He’d pulled himself into wealth with his own two hands. He was rather close to his mother, our grandmother—whom we only met once before she died—because they’d only had each other when he was young. A fact he’d often throw at my mother like a spear whenever she’d reprimand him for his course manners.
Good times. Good times.
Edwin and I managed to have outdoor adventures because Father mandated we be allowed outside. He did it to annoy Mother, but my brother and I didn’t care as long as we had each other.
Despite the shitty circumstances, this time with Edwin was a gift. I paused for a moment and admired the view from the window. I knew, at this moment, the housekeeper Mrs. Baxter and the head cook were bickering in the kitchen. Not so much because I could hear them, but because, day in and day out, the same routines were adhered to, same as rubber to a shoe.
I wanted to shake the women and tell them none of it mattered. Not the long-held traditions nor the rigid class system they’d cocooned themselves in with the veracity of a tightly woven blanket.
It would end soon. A war was coming. This world was in the winter of a time that no longer had a place in the modern world to come.
I trudged up the stairs, mood surly and somewhat hopeless. I despised this carefully created reality where the biggest decision was which kind of cheese was served after dinner. Or whether we had the salmon mousse or poached eels. Who freakin’ cared?
Let me set the record straight. There’s nothing glamorous about changing outfits six bloody times a day. Or a social class that was happy to let others serve them for meager wages because “that’s how it’s always been done.”
Trust me. I’d rather be a woman in the future and have choices, than a woman from the past living under a man’s thumb.
Whew. Where had that come from?