A Vampire's Love

by T. L. Humphrey

  At the reception, she ate little and drank much, like the champagne was going out of style. When she returned from the bathroom, I knew she threw up, and I couldn’t allow that to happen at the table. So, I took her drink, glad she drank the water instead. And after the incident with her father, I ended the night early because there was no way I would have the first dance with a hellcat. She may have tried to trip me, and while I am agile on my feet, I did not want another scene. I had only set up this venue for her, to give her a decent wedding I thought she might appreciate.

  When I brought her to the bedroom, I knew she would think it was mine. I had no idea she thought I would force myself on her. I had no idea all this time she expected me to take a pound of flesh for her actions all night. I’ve never hit a woman, and I would not start with her. She didn’t flinch when my hands touched her cheek, but she had held her breath. And what the hell? Start at her torso and work up to her face?–That beautiful face?

  Then, I realized as I stared down at her that someone had already done this to her before, and it made me angry, livid. I knew her father was abusive—I did not realize his fists struck her face—and I should have. However, then I realized she was waiting for me to do something to her. I wondered what it was, even as an inkling of awareness worked its way through my brain. Who was out there that made her think that she should be ‘punished’ for her actions and, more importantly, in this way? Her anger and defiance couldn’t just be about the wedding. No, this went deeper than that. And so, at that moment, I knew I would have to rethink my plans with her. I would have to change how I interacted with her, even if I had wanted to shake her silly.

  Even if I had wanted to take her in my arms and kiss away her hurt.

  Chapter Five

  Marina

  I DID NOT SLEEP WELL—AND I woke up. But the bed is comfortable, I grudgingly admit. Certainly more comfortable than the bed in my measly apartment. I stretch and slip out of bed to head to the bathroom. Once I’ve showered and tied the robe around me, I head to the closet. The first thing I see is the beautiful dress I had changed into before the reception—the crème colored dress Blake picked out for me. As much as I wanted to crumple it in the corner, I hung up instead. Right next to all the clothes hanging or folded or stacked in my gigantic walk-in closet.

  Someone had filled my closet, and I do not need to worry about finding something to wear. Everything I need is there. Shoes, purses, jewelry, clothes—everything is designer—even the bras and underwear. I lack for nothing clothes-wise, all picked out by some unknown, unseen person who thinks they know what I like.

  And everything is my size.

  In the closet's corner, I see a familiar stack of clothes and frown at it. Someone had gone into my apartment and taken all my clothes from my closet. I rummage through it and find something comfortable to wear, jeans and a shirt and comfortable shoes. I turn away from the finely tailored and no doubt expensive clothes hanging there, waiting to be chosen.

  As I near my bedroom door, I pause for a moment. I listen first and then open the door a crack to peer out. No one is up here. I creep out at first. Then I straighten up and wander around this man’s castle.

  Blake Harland.

  His initials are some things every so often as I wander through his home. Surprisingly, his place isn’t as large as I had first thought. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t tiny. But it appears to have only two bedrooms on the upper level. I peer over the railing to the floor below where the entrance is that leads to the living room. I trail my fingers along the railing, descending the stairs slowly, taking everything in. I bet the home is about five, maybe six thousand square feet and situated on a large plot of land. Regardless of how big this house is, it is still a jail for me.

  I will make him do it, I vow to myself again. I will get out of this marriage and be done with this world. And him. Then he can get rid of Marina Bellante, er, Harland, and make her body hide for all eternity. I’m sure he can do it with ease, and no one would be the wiser.

  I wander downstairs to the kitchen, and it is massive, like the rest of this place. Opening the fridge, my mouth drops slightly. There is enough food in there to run my father’s restaurant. Besides the restaurant's walk-in fridge, I’ve never seen so much food—well, ingredients—and I do not know where to start. Feeling overwhelmed, I close the door and slump my shoulders even as my stomach growls. There is a coffee maker at the end of the counter, and I walk over to it. I study it for a bit, wondering what all the buttons are for.

  It looks complicated—just like everything else in my life.

  I blow out a breath and wander around again. I had seen the gardens from the windows in my room, and I head out there now. It’s a giant outdoor conservatory full of everything that blooms and is perfectly groomed and manicured. The water features lend a gentle burble to the garden’s atmosphere, and I close my eyes to it. If I could live here, I would.

  If I could die here, I would.

  My plans hadn’t happened, but there is still time. I’ll annoy him some more, and he’ll snap. I’ve got to find those buttons to get him to snap. I pause. Except last night, he didn’t snap. He didn’t hit me like I thought he would. I raise my wrist and see the bruise, his thumbprint. It’s not noticeable unless I hold my wrist just right, and it doesn’t hurt. I drop my hand and gaze at the gardens some more. It’s like a giant maze without the possibility of getting lost. There is a massive pool and matching pool house off to the side, and it looks inviting.

  A wistful smile graces my lips for a brief moment. Doesn’t matter, I remind myself, I’m going to die. I turn and head back inside and near run into him, standing just inside the door. I hadn’t seen him as I entered. I backpedal a few steps as my breath catches. My eyes stray to his hands, and then I drag my eyes to his warily. Eventually, I take a shaky breath when I see he means no harm and is waiting for me to collect myself.

  “Sleep well?” he asks politely.

  I press my lips together and my brows. “Yeah.”

  I totally lied about my sleep, and I know he knows. This is so surreal and strange, and he is not acting like how I am trying to get him to act. It confuses me, and it makes me angry.

  “Hungry?” he asks, again in that same polite tone. I’m about to say no, and then my stomach rumbles. His lips tug a bit, and I take a steadying breath. “Come, I’ll have the chef make something.”

  “Chef?” I ask, despite me wanting to remain silent—to not speak to him.

  He reaches for me, and when I jerk away, he extends his hand to the kitchen, his expression calm. I precede him and take a seat at the island. He presses a button on the wall and takes a seat one chair away from me. Soon a rather agile-looking man comes in. He’s Asian, taller in stature, and has shrewd eyes as he looks me over quickly. His black hair hangs in a braid down his back, and he’s wearing a black Tai Chi type of outfit with white cuffs and accents.

  “Shen Kun,” Blake says. “The best chef in the world.”

  Blake grins and I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth in return. Confused, I quickly cover it and focus on the new man in front of me, who is smiling now.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harland,” Shen replies in perfect English.

  He moves to the refrigerator, and with quick and efficient movements, he takes items out of the fridge. I watch curiously, and then he faces me, his shrewd eyes taking me in once again. There’s something knowledgeable there and in that moment, I know he sees what I strive to keep hidden. I lean back a bit, warily.

  What magic is this? It’s as if he can see right into my mind.

  “What would you like?” He is cordial and waits patiently for my answer.

  And his words surprise me because now, I think I’ve imagined it all. This place is strange, and I was supposed to wake up dead today and not enjoy breakfast or sit here with my husband. At the very least, I should have woken up bruised.

  “Coffee. Omelet.” I finally say. Those are the first two things that popped into my br
ain.

  Shen smiles at me and says, “One coffee-omelet, coming up!”

  Despite my waking up this morning, I smile. Maybe he’ll poison me, and this will be my last meal created for me by a world-class chef. My eyes slide to Blake, his eyes crinkled at the corners. I put my scowl back on and turn away from him. I watch Shen working the complicated machine on the counter, and soon I have a steaming cup of coffee in front of me.

  He winks at me and tells me, “Despite what you asked for, I really don’t think you want a coffee-omelet. It’s either too gritty or too runny.”

  I press my lips together in an effort not to smile. He winks at me and turns away. I sip my coffee—pure heaven—and watch Shen get to work. I glance at Blake, who has his phone in his hand and is busy texting, ignoring us both. I watch his profile for a bit and hate that I find him attractive—yet another thing to be mad about.

  “Mr. Harland!” Shen tut-tuts. “No phones at the table!”

  “Technically, it’s an island.” Blake doesn’t look up as he makes that quip.

  Shen faces Blake, hands on his hips, and mock-glares at him until Blake, surprisingly, ducks his head and sets the phone down. I’m amused, despite myself. In short order, I have a steaming omelet and more coffee and Shen hands Blake a tall, dark travel-type mug. I look on curiously, unable to determine what he is drinking. But with a body like his, it’s probably full of protein. I look away. I don’t want to think about his body. I eat in silence as Shen cleans up quickly and disappears, leaving us alone.

  “This is good,” I say without thinking. The words hang there between us for a beat.

  “He’s the best.”

  I note the pride in his voice, and then I open my mouth. “Only the best for Mr. Har-land,” I quip.

  Blake sets his mug down, looking across the island at something, and a muscle tics in his jaw. “Anything you need, it will be provided. If you press zero on any phone, you will get to someone who can help you. Enjoy your day.” He leaves me then.

  My food tastes like ash now. I drain my coffee and leave.

  I WANDER AROUND, NOT really knowing what to do with myself now that I am awake. The food wasn’t poisoned. Somehow I think Shen would kill himself if he were to even think of such a thing. But I had succeeded in annoying Blake today, so I count that as a plus. I’ll keep pushing, and he’ll snap. I can be quite tenacious when I need to be.

  I wander around the inside of this home and notice the lack of mirrors. It’s strange, not that I’m vain and need to look at myself every time I pass one. The house is decorated and furnished tastefully and artfully. I keep wandering down a hallway and find a large office. The door is open and curious, I enter, stopping just inside, my mouth open. The wall behind the desk is floor to ceiling books. I’ve always liked to read, not that I ever had much time for it. I walk to the bookshelves anchored into the wall, holding its treasures. Many books grace the shelves and I would need a ladder to get to most. I’m impressed by it and try to read the spines all at once. I drag my finger across the bound books, some leather, some coated cardboard. Almost all look old, used—loved.

  My finger snags on one, slightly longer than the others, and I stop, curling my finger on the spine. I turn my head to the side to read it and can’t quite make out the language. It pulls out easily when I grip it, the leather casing and dust tickling my nose. The leather casing is amazing—and old, I see, as I flip through the book a bit. Old drawings of creatures that only exist in folklore grace the pages and are hand drawn.

  Mr. Fortini’s words come back to me then. He called Blake an—enigma. I pause and trace one picture. What did Mr. Fortini suspect about Blake? I frown and flip through a few more pages. I see goblets with decanters setting on ornate wooden tables and candelabras gracing the floors or as centerpieces on massive dining tables. These pictures are rudimentary, sketched, drawn, and colored with only the boldest colors—red being the predominant one. I wonder if I can get in touch with Mr. Fortini again.

  I flip through some more and see the Harland name inscribed with forenames, like a list under it. I realize this appears to be a family tree. I do not recognize the names, but the first name has the year 1200 AD next to it. I frown and trace it. Is this his family lineage? Does his bloodline really go back that far? I close the book and slide it back into its space.

  I keep looking through the books and many that look like the ones I just put away. I pull a few out. This one seems to be ancient Chinese, complete with the watercolor pictures of the time. The images are faded but beautiful. I trace my fingertips over them. There’s an image of a lovely woman with white hair and a shimmery haze around her. She is up in the heavens, surrounded by stars, looking down at two people; a male and a female. One holds a sword and the other a ring. Behind them, off to the side, is a strange, winged Tiger, and it appears as if it is going to attack. A peculiar green glow surrounds the book, and I jerk slightly. But when I look again, it’s just an ancient book. I remove my fingers from the images and close the book.

  I return the book and pull another. This one seems to have strange recipes and pictures of cauldrons or pots over fires, sketched with an artist’s skill. The recipes are written in a strange language. I furrow my brow and flip through some more. There are pictures of animals and plant life. I put this book back and stare at the massive bookshelf with my hands on my hips.

  Mr. Fortini said Blake was an enigma, and in seeing these books, I know he is. Frowning, I look through some more books and see that Blake is also so much more. A shiver crawls down my spine, slithering to even my knees. But yet, the books are legends, fairy tales, things to tell your children before they sleep at night—well, if you want to scare the hell out of them. I flip through the pages of another book and then shove it back in its place. I’m sure I know just what he is now. Yes, Blake Harland is an enigma.

  But even more curious is why I am unafraid and want to find out more about him.

  I END UP BACK IN THE living room and flounce down into a large sofa. Above me, the sun creeps through the rectangle windows and into the room. There is a rolled-up shade at the top of the windows, and a few moments later, I hear them whirring, lowering the shades to keep the sun from entering the room. I glance away and find the remote for the large TV. I lie back on the sofa as I station flip and flip, not deciding on anything to watch and instead watching snippets of everything. After a half-hour of this, I turn the TV off and stare at the ceiling.

  I’m bored because my plan did not work.

  I need to think of something to do to occupy my time while I plot my next move. I don’t know where Blake went, not that I care, but I do wonder what he does all day—other than run his business. It would be interesting to shadow him through his day—wait, no, it wouldn’t. I don’t care. I sit up. I need something to do other than watch TV and eat.

  “There you are!”

  I swivel my head to find the source, and a man comes in, sashaying as he walks. He is lanky, his lips a little too thin, his eyes a bit too narrow, his face a little too long. His hair is parted on one side. Despite the features, he is handsome in an unassuming way. He is wearing a blue cotton plaid shirt, his pants are Khaki, and he wears brown loafers. He glides when he walks. And I find myself interested in who this is walking to me as if he already knows me. I raise an eyebrow at him as he comes to stand before me. He places his hands on his hips and looks me up and down as I sit there.

  “What is it that you are doing with your hair, darling?” He clucks his tongue at me in disproval.

  “My hair?” I put a hand on the back of my head and wonder what he is getting at. After my shower, I finger combed it and put it in a ponytail.

  “Come,” he says, extending his hand as if I am just going to take some strange man’s hand.

  But then, I did yesterday—with Blake. I remain seated and hear an exasperated noise. “Who are you?” I demand.

  He makes a face at me. “Your Fairy Godfather, darling. The one who is going to make this,”
he waves his hand at me, “into a Princess. I hope.” Now I make a face, and he grins at me. “Up, up!” He claps his hands.

  Strangely, I do what he says.

  Dumbfounded, I follow him up to my room. We enter my walk-in closet, and I take a seat on the expensive duvet slash countertop in the middle of it. I watch the man’s back as he looks through my closet. He has a hand on his hip and a finger on his lips, and he makes ‘hmm-ing’ noises. He’s digging through the clothes from my apartment. He makes exclamations and tosses varied items onto the floor.

  Absently, I reach for one. “What’s wrong with these clothes?”

  “Did you dig in the dumpster for them?” He angles his head back. “By the way, darling, I’m Brad.”

  “Marina,” I answer slowly as he peruses my closet, unsure if the dumpster comment should offend me. He has moved onto the clothes hanging up now. “I like this,” I tell him, holding up a silk paisley patterned blouse he just dropped.

  He gasps and snatches it away from me. “So, Last Season!” He yanks it off the hanger and crumples it dramatically. “It’s silk, so you won’t be wearing it like this.”

  “I don’t know,” I say and can’t keep the smile away. “Isn’t crumpled silk fashionable?”

  Brad acts affronted and hurls the silk blouse at the doorway. It doesn’t throw very well, but I’m impressed it reached the foot of the door. I grin at him, and he winks at me.

  “Now, I happen to know Blake is having a dinner—business—meal thingy, and you need to look your best.”

  “What?” I choke.

  Brad spins to me. “A dinner thingy. You have to look your best. It’s tonight.”