“Is that it?” Everett whispers.
“Not quite,” I mutter, my gaze sliding to my father. “There is one more thing.”
Tradition demands our attention. We cannot ignore the long-established customs of our forefathers because it is their shoulders we stand upon; it is the first of our kind, our clan, we respect and honor when we take part in the ancestral transfer of power from one head of family to the next.
“Shall we?” Father asks and I nod. It is time.
“When you’re ready,” I reply. He shrugs out of his suit coat and Mother steps forward, taking it from him with a small smile in place.
Everyone watches in silence. Lilith, Mason and Sophia, with wide eyes, seem to freeze. The room is utterly still; not even the whisper of a stray breath disturbs the hush that has fallen. My heart pounds so heavily, I am surprised it doesn’t disturb the quiet.
Slowly, Father rolls the sleeve of his button-up toward his elbow. My mouth goes dry as my fangs press against my gums. Everett squeezes my forearm and I offer him a smile before shifting away from him and toward my father.
“May your reign last longer than mine,” Father whispers, holding his arm out. The words weren’t meant for anyone else so I did not reply. Instead, I grasp his wrist, my thumb moving over the blue veins just under the flesh. Our eyes lock for a second before I bend and bite into his arm. Blood rushes into my mouth and I close my eyes, drawing deeply.
Pulling away, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Father rolls down his sleeve.
I take in the upturned faces surrounding us.
It is done. The papers are signed. Tradition has been honored.
I am officially, truly and finally, Head of the Moroii.
“Speak!” someone yells. I have a feeling it is one of Mason’s friends. No doubt he paid one of them to encourage the crowd; it is at least something he would do to be irritating.
“Speak,” someone else joins in. Soon, they chant, “Speak. Speak. Speak.”
I don’t want to give a speech but I know one is required. My father gave a speech at his own ascension, spoke of the war and finding a solution to it. I have nothing of that nature to say because life is finally . . . calm; peace rules our clan—at least where the Vârcolaci are concerned.
“Today is not the day for speeches,” I speak. “Today is for celebrating, for honoring our family. The old—” I gesture to my father who glares, “—and the young.” I gesture to a young girl who stands near the front of those gathered. She looks around as if to be sure I am indicating her. When she realizes I am, her eyes widen. “Today is one of peace and that speaks for itself.
“Enjoy the party.”
Someone claps. Someone joins in and before long the whole room is applauding. I turn to my father and begin to put my hands together as well. This day is not just mine. It shouldn’t be about me at all. I haven’t done anything, yet. I haven’t dedicated my whole life the way my father has.
Father lifts his hand, his cheeks appearing a little more pink than I am accustomed to seeing. “That’s enough; enjoy the party, as Thanos said.”
The sound recedes and clan members break into pairs or groups. Music fills the room and my staff begins to move through the crowd, offering drinks and appetizers. Fingers curl with mine and I look down at Everett who smiles.
“What do I call you now?” he asks. My title has not changed, only my position.
My lips brush his ear. “Well . . . I rather enjoy the way my name rolls off your tongue.”
Everett flushes a deep red, his eyes flicking around the room.
I laugh and toss my arm around his shoulder. “Let’s mingle.”
He nods and we move into the crowd.
People I haven’t spoken to in years approach us, wish me well and introduce themselves to Everett. We talk politics and reminisce about days I can’t really remember because I wasn’t alive or was too young to hold onto a memory of the day.
It is tedious conversation and I am glad when Duke shows up in his NPD uniform, a grin in place. His appearance, the uniform mostly, halts the progression of clan members who want to speak to me about one thing or another.
“Officer Cooper,” I greet, grasping his forearm when he extends his hand. His fingers curl around my forearm and for the first time in an hour, a genuine smile pulls my lips.
“Mr. Right,” he says, the same old tease in his voice. “Officially, I’m here to ask if there is anything you would like to declare.” I shake my head. No doubt Valentine sent him. She has to know that the chances of my disclosure are next to impossible. Maybe she sent Duke because she thinks he has a better chance of getting a confession of misbehavior out of me.
“And unofficially?” I question. His eyes dance around the room. “Lilith is with Mother.” I nod. Her blonde hair stands out like a beacon on the far side of the room. Duke smiles. The fool is in love with her; anyone with eyes can see that.
Lilith probably loves him, too, in her own way, since she married him.
“You know,” I speak before Duke can run off, “I never thought she’d marry you. I knew you loved her, we all did, but—”
“She’s traditional; I know,” he interrupts, “but I think I see the parts of Lilith you don’t, that none of you do; that is why she married me.” My eyes drift toward my sister. What parts am I missing? We grew up together. She was my first friend and my best friend for many years. Even now, she is someone I consider a friend, as much as a sibling.
“She hurts,” Everett mutters and I look at him. “She hurts and you make those parts hurt less. I . . . I know how that is. It’s a powerful thing.”
Squeezing Everett against my side, I press a kiss to his temple.
Duke nods before turning to push his way through the crowd, making a beeline for Lilith.
“I didn’t know when I married you; I never even thought about the fact that you hurt. I saw it sometimes but I always thought it was because of me.” But it was because of his family.
They are monsters who mistreat him every chance they get. Not necessarily his mother and sisters, but his father and Oliver . . . they are disgusting animals—and it has nothing to do with their status as Vârcolaci.
“You are the only thing in my life that doesn’t hurt,” Everett says, wrapping his arm around my waist as he leans against me.
Now that I am clearly no longer talking to anyone, the groups swarm again. Everett is silent as I speak; he listens to the stories clan members have to tell and the advice they have to offer alongside me.
And I realize as he leans on me, I am leaning on him, too. We are both supporting each other, one body against another, united. It occurs to me . . . maybe my marriage won’t be so different from my parents’ union after all.
32
Wiggling in his seat, Everett hardly seems unable to contain himself. He found a warehouse that is perfect for his new studio plans three weeks ago. I’ve been so busy for the last five weeks, since taking over, I haven’t been able to see it—until now.
“Are you sure this is the one?” I ask, stopping in front of the building he indicated. “Isn’t it a little far from the city?” How is he going to attract new customers in the middle of the warehouse district since most people don’t come to this part of town? Would his old ones want to travel for his class?
“A little,” he agrees as we go out of the car. “I’m hoping if I reduce the price of my classes, the old ones will still come. And . . . I can put flyers and ads up in Necropolis. It won’t be as easy to attract customers as before, but if I give discounts for referrals, that might help, too.”
It sounds like he knows the business end of what he wants to do.
Thus far, he has figured everything out; no detail is overlooked this time.
While he deals with the business side by insuring proper papers are filed and permits are obtained, I deal with the building and infrastructure. The contractor I sent out days after Everett came home gushing about the building he located says it is
a sturdy structure.
So far, there is no reason Everett can’t set up shop here.
“If this is where you want to rebuild, I won’t stop you,” I tell him. He grins, his eyes lighting up with utter delight before he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the building.
“Let me show you around.” I laugh softly and don’t object. His excitement is contagious and I find my steps are slightly more bouncy than I am used to as we walk forward.
When we come to one of the many building entrances, Everett digs in his pocket for a set of keys. I look around the area, taking in the landscape and other warehouses. It is a good piece of property, sitting in a good location for a warehouse. The buildings are in decent condition with a more modern feel. I have a feeling, as an artist, he will do well here.
“Ready?” Everett asks.
“Lead the way,” I tell him. He pushes the door open and slips into the building. Spreading his arms out, he twirls around and laughs lightly. Catching his hand, I yank him against my chest. His body is warm and my soul seems to sigh in happiness just because he is nearby. “Tell me your plans, любимый.”
Pulling away— “I want a receptionist desk here, to separate the studio from the entrance way,” —he gestures to the space just in front of us.
“That sounds wise,” I agree.
It would be good to have a receptionist, someone to help with incoming clients and answer the phone when he is busy. They could help him clean up after classes and keep the papers in order, too. It would give him more time to teach, to paint, to do the things he so clearly loves every time he speaks about it.
Maybe he can even ask Sophia to help.
Mason is too occupied with his own life to be of any use.
Lilith would flat out refuse.
“I want to build a wall behind the desk,” he goes on to explain. “We can display important information and maybe some client artwork.” He speaks fast, moving from one area to the next. While he talks of the plans and flickers around, I nod and comment when necessary—which isn’t very often—while inspecting the interior of the building.
A lot of work will need to be done before the space can be used for anything. Trash litters the floor; a couple long tables are abandoned around the room. If I breathe deeply enough, I am sure the smell of mold and urine will choke me. There is clearly plenty of junk everywhere that has to be cleaned away by a professional team who will know how to properly dispose of it.
After the spot cleaning is taken care of, or maybe even before, it will be necessary to hire an electrician to fix the broken light figures that dangle from the overhead beams. Of course, before all is said and done, Everett will probably want to install a couple more sources of light, which I am fine with. Whatever he needs, I am willing to give him.
Once the lights are fixed and I suppose before the junk is cleared away, the big metal cage that looks as if it belongs in another era, sitting in the middle of the concrete floor, will have to be removed.
Or maybe Everett will want to keep it. If he pushes it into a corner, he can lock Mason inside when the nuisance becomes too annoying to handle, which is pretty regularly in my opinion but considering he and Everett are the best of friends, my husband will probably disagree. It could stay because it also has other purposes, too, that the public would need to be unaware of if it stays in the art studio.
“So . . . what do you think?” Everett asks and my gaze is drawn back to him.
“It’s great, Everett.” Leaping into my arms, he wraps his arms around my neck and grins. It is when he smiles at me like he is now, and his blue eyes seem to glow from within, that I realize he is really happy and I am truly lucky to have him.
“Really?” he questions.
“Really.” Pressing his lips against mine, his fingers push into my hair. Our mouths move together as I curl one arm around his waist and hold him close. It has been a couple days since we have been together and my body reacts to his touch but after a moment, before we can do more, he pulls back and I release him. There is a time and place for the things I desire to do to him but now is neither the time nor the place.
“I knew you’d like it so—” he moves to a black bag sitting on one of the tables nearby that I didn’t notice before, “—I got champagne.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile because of his obvious excitement. “Isn’t it a little early to celebrate?”
“No way,” he scoffs, pulling out two glasses. “You want to do the honors?”
I shake my head, walking toward him. “This is your moment; you do it.”
He opens the bottle and fills our glasses before he turns to me.
“Oh!” he exclaims just as he is about to pass my glass over, “I forgot to show you the best part!” He turns away, moving toward the back. “Come on.” I chuckle lightly at his spastic behavior, more than used to it after being married for almost five months, before following along like a dutiful husband.
Mounting a set of hidden stairs that are near the back entrance, he climbs upwards. After a dozen or so, we come to another door.
“It’s not locked.” When I push, it comes open. “You first,” he urges.
I step out the doors and pause. “Wow.”
Looming in the distance is the wall that separates Necropolis from the outside world. It isn’t a sight a lot of people ever get to witness but because we lived in Zone A, which is pressing right against the divider wall, I grew up seeing it as the backdrop to a lot of my daily life.
There was a time or two when I got brave, or stupid depending on who you ask, and snuck outside of the wall just to see what it was out like on the other side. It isn’t . . . impressive, but the wall always is. No matter how many times I see it, it never stops being fascinating.
Climbing a good half mile into the sky, it is a testament to how much humans can fear and hate what isn’t . . . them. It is a physical monument, something you can touch if you are fast enough, declaring the divide between monsters and men, between us and them.
I shake my head, knowing I’ll never really understand what makes us so different. There is no point searching for an answer that doesn’t exist, anyway.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Everett asks, passing my glass.
“It’s something.” Mostly, I think it is sad.
If humans and monsters could find a way to co-exist, we could help each other so much. It is never going to happen so I let my gaze wander the horizon as I drink the champagne and enjoy the quiet celebration with my husband.
The view grows fuzzy and I frown because the pollution index has been surprisingly low as of late. It shouldn’t be hard to see the wall, but it is growing harder by the second. Opening my mouth, I go to ask Everett if he recalls the index prediction, in case I am mistaken about the levels of smog, but my tongue feels heavy as my vision starts to darken.
There is an ache in the back of my throat, a burning that is working its way toward my stomach.
This . . . I know this feeling. I’ve experienced once before, as a boy. I’d been playing in the backyard and decided to fool in my mother’s garden even though she warned against it.
“Belladonna?” I look at my glass then toward Everett. He looks . . . guilty. “Everett?”
“It’s okay,” he urges, his voice strained. “I didn’t use mu—” Stumbling toward him, the glass slips from my fingers and shatters against the rooftop. He catches my weight, his eyes wide, as my knees buckle. My throat closes up and I can’t find the words I need.
Belladonna isn’t poisonous to Moroii per se. If used in the right amount, it could be used to subdue us. Humans have used it on us in the past, when they needed to control us.
Why would Everett . . .
“I’m sorry, Thanos,” he whispers. I shake my head, trying to clear the fog from my vision and form a sentence but I can do neither.
Why is Everett sorry?
What is he doing?
“I don—” But as the rooftop door opens and the fam
iliar stench of one of the Dawson's washes over me, I realize I do understand.
Everett, the bastard, he has betrayed me—betrayed us all.
How could he?
I thought he loved me.
33
My head is pounding. Something wet has soaked into my pants but I am not cold; in fact, I am burning up. Groaning, I roll over and freeze halfway to lifting up when my fingers sink into the same wetness I’ve apparently been lying in.
What is this?
Where am I?
“I told you he wasn’t dead,” a woman’s voice I recognize but can’t place snaps.
Why would I be dead? What is going on?
Pushing to my knees, I close my eyes against the white hot light that surrounds, illuminates, where I have been laying. After a couple seconds, my eyes adjust and I realize, I am in a warehouse . . . Everett’s warehouse—the one he was planning to turn into an art studio.
I frown.
Then, I remember.
Surging to my feet, I spin in a circle. The lights I thought were broken are intact and in perfect working order, if their nearly scorching glare is any indication. The cage I so readily dismissed earlier isn’t so harmless, nor does it seem like a good place to have a little fun now that I am looking out from inside of it.
“It would solve a host of problems if you were,” Evaline Dawson, the eldest of the Dawson daughters, speaks. She stands just out of reach with a self-satisfied smile curling her lips; if I attempt to lunge for her through the bars, it won’t do me any good.
Just behind her, looking at his own feet is . . . my husband.
Scattered throughout the room are other Vârcolaci, including Oliver who looks utterly bored by the whole turn of events. Oddly enough, David Dawson is missing. Is he unaware of this plan or simply unwilling to be involved? I never took the man as a coward or someone to let his children do his dirty work but . . . what do I really know, clearly?
“Have you figured it out?” Evaline sneers and my gaze moves back to her. I don’t know all the details, but I know enough. Some things are obvious. The last thing I need or want from her is a long, drawn out monologue.
After The I Do Page 21