The Vampire's Doll (The Heiress and the Vampire Book 1)

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  “Dennis, stop! This is my best—”

  “They’re starving me,” he snapped at her, and lightning quick, his fangs sunk into Els’ wrist.

  Els struggled for a moment, trying to shove him off. She didn’t scream and alert the servants. It was that sort of thing that made her Parsons’ best friend for all eternity.

  Parsons quickly brought out the wand and twisted it between her fingers like Calban demonstrated. She hesitated only for a moment. Dennis might hate her for this, but she would do anything to rescue Els.

  The bracelets flashed with magical energy. The sound made her cringe, half-expecting to be electrocuted herself, as if the wand would experience recoil. Dennis was jolted back with a cry of pain. He staggered, blood dripping from his mouth. For a moment, his eyes flashed with something wild.

  Parsons grabbed Els by the arm, but it was Dennis she looked at with concern—and dread.

  Dennis tried to wipe his mouth with a hand. “Miss—Els—I—”

  “It’s all right,” Els said softly. “It’s really all right. But I should probably go and—get cleaned up somewhere else, so I don’t get you in trouble.”

  “Els, are you really all right?” Parsons asked.

  “Just a little shaken. Fine. Really.” She pressed her skin together, using a little telekinesis to seal the wound. Els was no healer, but nearly every Miralem could knit skin back together on a surface level. It probably still hurt. Sometimes Parsons forgot what blood and pain were like.

  “Yes, you should go home,” Parsons said.

  She watched Els hurry across the lawn, in a bit of shock herself, before she turned to Dennis.

  “That’s how it is,” he murmured. “Yes…it works out well. I can walk free as long as you’re here to shock me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Parsons said. “But—what if you had hurt Els?”

  “I would rather not think about it.” He turned to her, swiping his hand across his mouth one final time although the blood was clean. “You uncanny little creature, you’re the one person who doesn’t have to fear me. You’re my captor, but it’s Calban’s prison for both of us, isn’t it? And you don’t question it.”

  “I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’m in a very uncomfortable position, but it would be worse for you if I wasn’t here. And just when I think we’re getting somewhere, you call me a doll or a creature. You look at me like I’m not real, and I guess I’m not on the outside, but you could at least try.” She frowned. “I hope you know I never asked Calban to show up at work like that. But then, you started blabbing about how our whole world is a sham? Please—I don’t want you to go back to prison. Don’t be reckless.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Why wouldn’t I care? We’re…we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  He growled. “What a task you’ve been given. You can’t watch me every moment. Maybe they were right to put me in jail.”

  “No,” Parsons said. “Don’t say things like that.” She looked up at him, her face full of concern. She should probably try to hide it, but she couldn’t.

  “I don’t hunt anymore. I think that’s part of it. I need to—to—” He turned from her gaze. He was still holding the bow. “I used to kill deer.”

  Impulsively, she put a hand on the sleeve of his jacket, rough wool in contrast to the fine cotton of her own hands, which was heavily enchanted to be stronger and look and feel more like skin, but was always softer.

  His eyes moved from her hand, up her arm, finally resting on her face. His mouth was open just a crack, his tongue roving over the edge of his fangs. They seemed to recede somewhat.

  “Just know that you can’t trust me,” he said. “I wish you could, but you can’t.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t trust anyone,” she said. “But you can trust me.”

  He gave her the barest smile.

  Parsons had always been drawn to tragedy, and the tragedy of Dennis was more romantic than anything in a story, because it was right in front of her. She imagined that some day, he would see her in a different light. He would let her take his hand and kiss his brow, and he would express his eternal love for her. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same. She underlined that one in Wuthering Heights, because she thought it would be a good starting place for her dreams. She would want to speak to him in English. It would be easier to find words in English if she was prepared with someone else’s.

  None of this would really happen. She knew that. But then…sometimes she wondered. The way he looked at her…it had certainly changed over the past couple weeks. His eyes lingered on her longer and more frequently. Sometimes it was casual, and sometimes—she hoped it wasn’t.

  She asked the cook to send for some thin slices of cured ham and make it for breakfast with fried eggs. The cook, a boisterous Islander woman named Vrirala who had worked for them the past decade, seemed pleased that Parsons had any sort of meal request.

  Dennis came to the table that morning, lured by the smell, and looked at her with a touch of surprised happiness. That expression made him look so young, she thought, like for once he wasn’t thinking about anything but the moment at hand.

  “Bacon," he said. “Almost.”

  “What kind of breakfast is this?” Papa came in at the same time and looked at the maid who brought in the plates. “I need my soup.”

  “Mistress Belvray’s request, sir,” Vrirala said.

  “Parsons? I don’t understand. You never request meals.”

  “It’s an American breakfast,” Parsons said.

  “So it is on Mr. Faraday’s behalf.” He sounded downright cross—by Papa’s standards.

  “I just thought he might be homesick.”

  “This is what you’ve been spending your days thinking about?” His brows furrowed. “This sort of thing is why you didn’t get into university.”

  Anger rushed within her, hot and sudden. “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked you to make an important decision recently, and I see no evidence that you’ve been thinking about it. Besides that, ham and eggs first thing in the morning? That’ll sit in my stomach like a rock.”

  “This is absurd,” Parsons said. “It’s just a meal. I am thinking about it. It’s a huge decision.”

  “You aren’t doing anything.” He sat down with a huff and started cutting through the ham and eggs, almost shoving them off the plate. “I want you to go to the next palace dance and make some effort. Come home with a full dance card.”

  “What? I thought you wanted me to stay here with you.”

  “You’re stuck in place. And at some point, I have to push you out the door. Give Mr. Samaron a chance.”

  “He’s a skarnwen,” Parsons whispered, horrified almost beyond words.

  “You don’t know that. At some point, you’re going to have to learn to trust people a little. I’m not saying you have to go out alone with the man, just go to the dance and have some fun. Take Els with you.”

  This hardly softened the blow, but she didn’t want to make a scene in front of Dennis. She nodded, looking down at her own plate, and choked down some of the food.

  For some reason, when they went to work that day, Papa stood outside and watched them leave. He looked like he wanted to stop her—or maybe stop Dennis from accompanying her.

  “What is a skarnwen?” Dennis asked her as she drove away from the house.

  She squirmed. “A man who prefers girls—like me.” She added, “Must sound strange to you.”

  “Men who prefer Fanarlem?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t get that. I’ve never had a type,” he said. “Much to everyone’s chagrin back home.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they’d like to pin me down, set me up with someone. I was considered a decent specimen back home.”

  I bet you were. The slight cockiness of his grin destroyed her. “You never had a girl back home?”

  “I did. Miss Anna Kirby. She was
the very ideal of womanhood. Fair hair, rosy cheeks.”

  Parsons had neither of those things. “Were you going to marry her?” She tried to sound light.

  “No,” he said, bluntly. “She was starting to bore me. I don’t know,” he murmured. “Everything was starting to bore me. Maybe that’s what Eliza saw in me when she turned me. I’ll say one thing—being a vampire wasn’t boring. No more sitting behind a desk. I liked surviving in the forest—at least, with such strength.”

  “What was Eliza like?”

  “Eliza was…wild. Sad. An old soul in a young body. Not beautiful the way Miss Kirby was, but…” He licked his lips, briefly, perhaps unconsciously. “Vampires are very compelling monsters, it’s true.”

  “But you said she had given in to her hunger.”

  “Yes. She was quite wicked but it was hard not to feel sorry for her at the same time.”

  She wished she hadn’t asked.

  The men in the office were upset that day. Hundreds of crates of books awaiting shipment to Atlantis had been broken open and dumped into the ocean overnight, apparently by a group of factory workers. The loss was estimated at twenty thousand ilan, a huge sum.

  All of these books had passed through Product Development before going to the translators and then the printers. So everyone took it personally, especially Mr. Bules, who handled the books.

  “Idiots!” he ranted. “I bet they can’t even read. Or maybe their stupid little minds just can’t grasp anything beyond pamphlets.”

  For the past two centuries, since the invention of the printing press, the words of the Wodrenarune were distributed in small pamphlets. This was the only printed material most common people owned until the discovery of the Fallen Lands. One of the first things Lord Jherin ordered were more advanced printing presses. Newspapers and books started to become cheaper and more plentiful.

  “They’re stabbing their own eyes out down there in the slums,” Mr. Denordin said. “Lord Jherin is trying to give them civilization. They don’t even know what it means, so they shove it away. They don’t understand the Promise of a New World, how it will benefit them, all they know is that we didn’t go crush the Miralem right this second.”

  Mr. Samaron had come around by this point for his daily check-in to their department, and for once, he didn’t pay any attention to Parsons. “The Promise of a New World hasn’t benefited them,” he said. “At least, not yet. It’s a hard life down there. They can’t afford books.”

  Everyone protested. “Why not? The factories pay well.” “They’re squandering their money on drink, that’s why.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Samaron admitted. “Drinking and smoking, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t have time to read. They’re exhausted. I saw my father go from working for himself as a smith to working for someone else. The hours are the same, I’d say, but it’s different now. Those men used to be masters of their own lives; now one man rules over a hundred. And they’re working in assembly lines. They don’t have the satisfaction of making something, top to bottom, and selling it directly to their neighbor.”

  “So you think we’re all better off like we were?” Mr. Denordin said. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those anti-progress types. You’ve certainly benefited.”

  “Oh, I have indeed. I’m not anti-progress. I just think it’s easy to forget that not everyone sees it that way.”

  Parsons had never seen this side of Mr. Samaron, a man capable of understanding for the lower classes. Maybe, she told herself, the dance won’t be so bad. Maybe he’s not a skarnwen, maybe he’s one of those abolitionists against Fanarlem slavery and he thinks I’d agree with him. Most people seemed surprised that Parsons had Fanarlem servants. Deep down, maybe it did bother her that she owned Francoise and Eugenie. She had no choice, of course, it was the law that the Fanarlem-born had to be someone’s property. She treated them well but she didn’t dare express any dissent. It would make her seem more like she was a true Fanarlem.

  Chapter Twelve

  Parsons was hoping Els had forgotten about her secret plan for Parsons.

  Alas. Els never forgot a secret plan.

  “I’ll go to that dance with you if you come to Wonderland tonight with me,” Els said, when Parsons stopped by.

  “But you like dances anyway.”

  “I do, but I would abstain in order to punish you, if I must. Don’t you owe me something for getting bitten at your house?”

  “I should probably go home and change,” Parsons said, making excuses. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d worn a plain black dress to Wonderland Park.

  “No worries about that. Just come with me.”

  Els carried a satchel, and although Parsons asked what was in it, of course Els didn’t answer.

  The sun was setting as the ferry brought them to the island. The waves rolled them slowly to the glittering lights of the park, and that glitter reflected in Els’ eyes. Parsons felt deeply apprehensive as those eyes turned to her, slightly hooded, with a faint smile on Els’ lips.

  “You lucky girl,” Els murmured. “And you don’t even enjoy it.”

  “What on earth are you going on about?”

  “I can’t be sorry that he bit me,” Els said. “Quite the contrary…”

  “Don’t say such things. You know, his fangs have some sort of venom that makes his victims want to kill them. How romantic is that?”

  She said it sarcastically, but Els said, “Whatever it is, it’s delicious.”

  Jealousy hit Parsons like an electric shock.

  “Don’t worry,” Els said. “All the venom in the world couldn’t make me steal a boy from you, dear. But I like him. He’s dangerous but he has a heart. He’s perfect for you. You should let him ravish you. Gosh, I would.”

  “This fades after a week,” Parsons said, reassuring herself as much as Els.

  “What does?”

  “Wanting to be ravished by him. It’s the venom. His file said so.”

  “I guess that’s good. This is no way to go to a dance with my usual crowd. You’re right. They are boys.”

  “Els, I will throw you off this ferry, I swear.”

  Els sighed deeply.

  The ferry bumped as it was docking. The crowds started to move to the exits. Els took her hand. “Come on.”

  As soon as they passed through the gates of Wonderland Park, Els veered to the left, bypassing all the games and shows. They crept around the back of buildings until they met the edge of the evergreens on the top ridge of the island. They were heading to the shadowed side that faced the mainland, the rocks where people held picnics. It was dark, so of course no one was having a picnic.

  The music of the band organ and the screams of people riding on the amusements quickly faded away behind the rocks. From here, they could see a treacherous landscape of rocks, evergreens, a scrap of beach. Paths to the water were marked out here and there by the evidence of foot traffic.

  Els opened her satchel and took out two wool bathing suits. The Earth kind, a sleeveless shirt and a little pair of shorts, with striped edges.

  “I know you can’t swim,” Els said. “Unfortunately. But it is still quite appropriate to wear a fashionable new bathing suit while frolicking around the rocks. And no one will see us anyway.”

  “I’m not wearing a bathing suit. What’s the point?”

  “The point is to feel the ground under your feet and the breeze on your bare skin, in a safe place. That’s it. So much more innocent than you imagined from me, isn’t it? No peep shows.” Els winked. “Except when I change.” She opened her dress enough to flash a breast. “Peep!” she cried, coming at Parsons like she was going to be scared.

  “Stop it. You’re so silly. I’m still not sure what this has to do with being comfortable around Dennis.”

  “The point is that you’re adorable and you should realize it. Now go get dressed or I’ll shove you off this rock. Remember, we’re all alone out here.”

  Parsons was playing dumb to Els; she k
new the point, really. She had always hated the sight of herself, and maybe that was why she would never really have her mother’s spirit. She remembered Mama as being grubby and imperfect, but happy in her own skin, and when she did dress up, she glowed like a star even though she was far from the most beautiful of mothers.

  Maybe it was this memory that made her acquiesce. Suppose Mama had lived and Parsons still had to become a Fanarlem.

  Mama would have brushed Parsons’ hair out of her eyes and made her feel all right about everything.

  Parsons slipped to a private, shadowed spot under a rock ledge and unbuttoned her dress. When this fell to her feet, and all the many buttons of her boots were undone, her arms were bare, with tiny stitches visible at her wrists and elbows. She had always debated hiding those stitches with illusion spells, the way some of her other stitches were hidden, like the ones at the sides of her torso or the ones that attached her face to her scalp. But the Fanarlem maker said no one hid joint stitches. He hinted that her husband would find them attractive someday. Of course, he probably assumed her husband would be a skarnwen.

  She freed her stockings from her garters and peeled them off, and when her bare feet touched the rock, which was still very warm from the summer sun earlier in the day, she realized she hadn’t felt this sensation since she was a real girl.

  Quickly, she slipped off her chemise, barely regarding the moonlight glow of her bare body before yanking on the wool shorts and top.

  She waited a moment before climbing back up, to make sure Els was decent. The city of Nalim Ima was visible from here in all of its electric glory, a dense cluster of buildings rising a little higher each year, just as every year saw more of the sailing ships replaced with steam-powered ones. One of the steamships was leaving the port right now, smokestacks belching, rows of tiny lights marking its form.

  Nalim Ima would never really look like Manhattan, however. Just behind the city were the rock hills called the Guardians. The tallest one was shaped almost like a cresting wave of bare rock about to collapse upon the city. The smaller two were softer, more dome-shaped, and had trees on their peaks. At night they were shadows that loomed protectively, and the city looked so small from here.