Knowledge Revealed

by D. S. Williams

  I was recalling the very fast drive the last time he'd taken me to the cottage. “Do you always drive like a lunatic?”

  He reached across and caught my hand in his. “I have never had an accident in more than ninety years, Charlotte.” His tone was soft, reproachful even, as if he couldn't believe I would suggest there was a possibility of him being involved in an accident.

  “I've no doubt that's true,” I agreed. I couldn't dispute his driving skills, each turn and twist in the road was navigated with perfect precision. “However, it's making me very nervous. Could you slow down a little? Please?”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Tell this girl I'm a vampire and she doesn't raise a sweat. Do a little bit of speed on the road and she's ready to have a heart attack,” he muttered beneath his breath. He eased the pressure on the accelerator and I watched the needle drop until we were cruising at a slightly more reasonable eighty.

  “Thank you.” I squeezed his fingers gratefully and settled back in the seat, relaxing to some extent.

  He slowed to a moderate cruise again when we reached the gravel drive to the cottage, pulling to a gentle stop and making it around to my door before I'd had a chance to unclip the seatbelt. Lifting me into his arms, he strode up the steps, dropping me carefully to my feet as he unlocked the door. He motioned to pick me up again but this time I was prepared, holding my hand up as warning. “Lucas. I can walk; Jerome said the cast is fine to stand on. I think I can walk around without danger, my place is barely the size of your kitchen.”

  Not waiting for a response, I slipped past him and limped slowly into the living room. Glancing around in dismay, I wondered how I'd lived like this for so long. The room was sparse, with only the tattered armchair from Goodwill and my precious easel to break up the starkness of the room. Wandering slowly through the kitchen, I ran my fingers idly across the bench. Knowing Rowena and Marianne had been here made me shudder, thinking how awful it was, in comparison to their elaborate home.

  I dragged a jar from the shelves, pulling out the cash I routinely put aside for groceries each week. Counting through it, I discovered eighty dollars and I went back into the living room and retrieved my purse. It was exactly where I'd left it, on the day I'd gone into the woods, and I rummaged for the envelope Hank had given me. Pulling the cash from the envelope, I bundled all the money together and offered it to Lucas. “This is what I owe you for rent.”

  Lucas narrowed his eyes as he stared down at me and I realized how tall he actually was. I reached about five feet five inches – he was at least ten inches taller. “I'm not taking your money, Charlotte,” he announced decisively.

  “You aren't going to pay my rent,” I argued. “That's my responsibility, not yours.”

  I held the cash out, but he continued to stare at me, blue eyes filled with obstinacy. “I'm not taking it.”

  “You have to,” I insisted. “I'm not a charity case.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “Nobody is suggesting you are. I will not take your money; this is completely ridiculous. I don't need the money.” He glanced towards the door and I followed his gaze to the luxurious car parked outside. “Do you honestly think I need you to pay me back?” His gaze flickered around the tiny room, his face expressionless. “Keep it and buy yourself some furniture.”

  His words cut like a knife. I suddenly realized my current situation – staying with him – was tenuous at best. Eventually, I would move back here. The thought was depressing.

  It was abundantly clear I wasn't making any headway with Lucas – the tension in his jaw and the determined look in his eyes would bear no argument. With a sigh, I flung the crumpled notes into my purse and dropped it on the armchair before stomping through to the bedroom. Lucas followed behind, watching silently as I searched out extra clothing in the small wardrobe, which he then packed into a duffel bag he'd found in the living room.

  The longer I stayed, the darker my frame of mind became. I'd been happy before we'd left Lucas's home, my mood upbeat and I silently analyzed why it had changed. Lucas suggesting I buy new furniture had been the catalyst; obviously, he expected me to move back here – and why shouldn't he? We barely knew each other, naturally, his expectations would be for me to return to my own place, and then we would get to know one another like normal couples. It was the obvious way to proceed, so why was I so annoyed about the idea? The more I considered my situation, the more I began to understand what was happening. After the revelation of my background to Lucas and the others, I felt a connection to them, found myself opening up for the first time in years. Living on my own again wasn't something I wanted to consider, the very idea left me feeling lost and alone.

  Lucas took the bag to the car, placing it in the trunk before he collected the box of painting equipment and my easel. When I was satisfied I had everything, I locked the door and stepped slowly down the stairs.

  Lucas waited at the bottom and I didn't argue when he lifted me into his arms. Logic dictated my plaster cast and the muddy ground wouldn't be good for one another. Lucas clipped my seatbelt and strode around to take his place, starting the engine and gently pulling away from the cottage.

  I kept my attention on the side mirror, watching the cottage disappear behind the trees until it slid from view. Sorrow overwhelmed me – I missed my mom with a tangible ache in my chest and I bit my lip, trying to keep the tears from falling. Lucas remained quiet as we pulled out onto the highway, allowing me to examine my mood in peace. Oblivious to what speed he was doing, I lay back against the headrest, watching the diverse shades of green pass the window in a blur. The heavy snowfalls from Christmas had thawed, leaving the ground heavy with moisture. Rain had fallen for most of the morning, the sky overhead steel gray and oppressive. It matched my disposition.

  Perhaps I was suffering some form of posttraumatic stress – after all, only three weeks ago I'd nearly been murdered. Was I frightened to live on my own again? I dismissed the thought as hastily as it arrived. This wasn't fear; it was the cottage – and what it represented. The thought of going back to that life, living on my own with no company, wandering aimlessly with no objectives or goals was depressing. It wasn't fear of what could happen to me on my own – it was fear of being alone and lonely. Something that I'd accepted while thoughts of suicide dominated my every thought, now I wanted the company of Lucas and his friends. I didn't want to go back to being alone; I feared it would be all too easy to fall back into thoughts of suicide.

  “Charlotte.”

  I turned to find Lucas eyeing me, his brow puckered into a frown as he regarded me with undisguised concern. “Yes?”

  “What are you worrying about? What's wrong?” he demanded.

  “It's nothing.”

  He glanced back to the road for a split second, before turning to me again. “Please, Charlotte. Tell me what's wrong. I'm going to come to all the wrong conclusions if you don't tell me.”

  It was my turn to frown. “Wrong conclusions?” I repeated blankly.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “You've been preoccupied since we arrived at the cottage and now, you seem desperately worried about something.” His expression was somber.

  “What?” Still sifting through my mood, although I was listening, I had barely comprehended what he was saying.

  He abruptly pulled the car to the side of the road, hitting the brake pedal so hard that the car skidded along the gravel shoulder and I gripped the dashboard in genuine terror. He skillfully controlled the car until it came to rest and turned off the ignition, turning to face me.

  “Charlotte. Please tell me if you want me to take you back to the cottage. I promise I will. If that's what you want, I will accept your wishes.” His voice was calm but his eyes betrayed his emotions as he gazed at me.

  I shook my head, suddenly grasping what he was saying. “I don't want to go back to the cottage. Why would you think that?”

  His brow furrowed, and his eyes filled with caution. “I was getting the distinc
t impression you were unhappy. I thought when you tried to force me to take the money – and now when you look so sad – I assumed you were having second thoughts and were tidying up loose ends.” He stopped speaking abruptly and clenched his hands on the steering wheel. “I completely understand if you decide against pursuing this, I have expected it. I keep waiting for when I say something that really does frighten you. It's not a matter of if it happens – it's when.”

  I put my fingers against his lips, stopping him. “Lucas, that won't happen. I love you.”

  Lucas leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes with relief. “Then would you please explain why you are so unhappy?”

  I wasn't sure how to explain. A glance at Lucas's troubled expression was enough to force an attempt. Thinking through my reactions, I tried to confirm exactly what prompted my suddenly glum mood. The sparseness of my cottage, the lack of… homeliness – it was overwhelming when I compared it to the camaraderie amongst Lucas and his friends. I'd enjoyed the time I spent with them, watching their interactions with one another, the genuine warmth and affection they held for each other. The friendship they had offered me, for the most part, was the first affection I'd accepted since Mom died and I craved it, more than I could ever have imagined.

  Turning in the seat to face Lucas, I pulled a face when my ribs jarred. How could I explain this to him, would he think I was being pathetic? In my own head, it sounded like the ramblings of a desperately lonely person. I didn't have an answer to my predicament, obviously, I couldn't live with them forever, and yet it was the closest thing I'd had to a family in a long time. Ben and Rowena had been so welcoming, almost to the point of feeling like surrogate parents. This was a completely impossible state of affairs, feeling at home with a group of vampires. Insane. Maybe I was suffering from PTSD and this was the way it was presenting – in a desire to latch on to something tangible, I'd decided to adopt vampires. Crazy.

  “Charlotte, I swear I will get on my knees and beg…”

  The struggle he was having with my silent ponderings was clear in Lucas's eyes. I smiled warmly, reaching over to caress his cheek. “It's alright, Lucas. I'm just not sure how to explain how I feel without sounding like an idiot.”

  He captured my hand and held it tightly. “Try. Please.”

  “I'm happy at your house. With all of you.”

  “Yes?”

  He searched my face and I knew he didn't understand. I sighed. “I'm really happy at your house. With you. Happier than I've been since my family were killed. I feel… safe there.” I risked a glimpse into his eyes, frightened of what I would see. He continued gazing at me, no sign of concerns that I was losing my mind. “When I went back to the cottage, I realized how sad and alone I've been. How much I've allowed my life to become a closed book. These past few weeks with you and your friends – I've felt alive again. When I started thinking about going back to the cottage, back to living by myself – it made me sad.”

  Comprehension reached Lucas's eyes and his brow relaxed. “I see.”

  “I'm sure I'll get over it,” I assured him hurriedly, blushing to the top of my hairline. “It's probably just a reaction to being alone for so long. Like a baby bird being born, I guess. I've cracked open the eggshell and imprinted on the first people I came across.”

  He chuckled. “Interesting analogy. A baby bird that has imprinted on a Kiss of vampires.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead.

  “I'm being pathetic.”

  “Your concerns are not pathetic, Charlotte,” Lucas assured me quietly. “And you will never be asked to leave my home. I very much want you there, with me.”

  I glanced up, surprised by this admission. “Really?”

  Lucas smiled warmly. “Really. Do you honestly think I want you to leave?” He brushed a kiss against my lips, pulling me into his arms as he whispered against my ear. “I have fallen in love with you, Charlotte. I want you with me, if that's what you want. You really are a crazy baby bird, if you think otherwise.”

  “A complete lunatic,” I agreed.

  With another soft kiss against my mouth, Lucas released me and turned the key in the ignition, pulling the car back onto the road to drive me home.

  ≈†◊◊†◊◊†◊◊†≈

  Rowena greeted me with a warm hug when Lucas carried me through the front door and I grinned happily in return.

  “Did you have some lunch?”

  I shook my head. “I can make something,” I volunteered.

  “No, I insist. I'm happy to make something for you. Would you like a sandwich? Or something more?”

  Agreeing that a sandwich would be perfect, I watched Rowena disappear into the kitchen whilst Lucas carried me through to the living room, dropping me lightly onto the couch. He kissed me and returned outside to collect my belongings. Leaning back against the couch, my heart bounced back to the level of happiness I'd grown accustomed to since being here.

  “Hey, Charlotte. How was the trip to your cottage? I had a vision of you smashing into a tree for a few seconds – presumably Lucas was driving too fast?” Marianne enquired, waltzing through the living room to sit daintily near my feet.

  “I did see my life flash before my eyes,” I admitted.

  Lucas deposited my painting supplies on the floor beside the piano. “She was always completely safe.” He raised an eyebrow at Marianne. “Don't let Marianne fool you, she drives as fast as I do.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I would never do anything to put you in harm's way,” he whispered against my ear, his breath raising goose bumps on my skin.

  Rowena appeared with a tuna salad sandwich and a soda, and I munched through the sandwich, watching as Lucas set up the easel and organized my equipment so it was within easy reach. He brought me a sketchpad I requested and when I'd finished eating, I began making preliminary drawings for Marianne's portrait. Whilst portraits were one of my favorite styles, the thought of painting from memory made me apprehensive. Usually the subject posed, or I painted from a photograph, transforming it into artwork. To paint from an image in my head would be quite a challenge. It took only a few minutes to decide working from a memory wasn't going to succeed at all. The images were too hazy to create an accurate representation, and there was no way to clarify what I'd seen the night before into something tangible I could work with.

  Marianne pottered around the room, there were large vases of flowers on every available surface and she rearranged them, removing wilting blooms and refreshing the water. Each time she passed the couch, I knew she was trying to steal a glance at the sketchpad and I frowned, knowing I wasn't giving her very much to see.

  Rowena sat quietly in one of the armchairs, reading a book, and Ripley stood at the window, to all intents and purposes resembling a marble sculpture. I wondered absently what he could be thinking about, which would have him standing so motionless and gazing sightlessly out the window. This ability to stay so completely immobile fascinated me, vampires apparently had no need to fidget, didn't suffer the restlessness humans were known to experience.

  Music filled the room – Lucas had sat down at the piano, and was playing softly. The music was soothing, one of the Beethoven pieces he'd played when I'd spent the night at his house. I looked at him and he glanced up from the keys, sensing my gaze on him. He smiled and my heart skidded in my chest.

  Not helpful. Dragging my eyes away from his distracting presence, I listened to the music, letting the soft notes soothe my mind. Working from memory was definitely not proving successful. I shut my eyes, searching the strands in my mind until I located Marianne's parents. It was surprising to find it wasn't difficult, once I began to listen attentively, their voices sounded clear and well defined, and they stepped forward into my mind's eye. With astonishment, I realized they looked younger than they had when they'd appeared last night. I watched for a few minutes, appreciating exactly how much Marianne was like her mother. It occurred to me that they wanted to be painted this way – so Marianne would see them as they'd o
nce been, before the strain of losing their daughter had prematurely aged them. Marianne's siblings, Philip and Annabeth appeared at their parents' side – they also looked younger, as they'd probably been before Marianne's 'death'. Their faces were happy, bright, and full of expectation.

  The most difficult part was talking to them. They could obviously hear me and initially I attempted to converse silently, but it wasn't as constructive as I'd hoped. A glance around the room, confirmed everyone was busy with their own projects and I decided speaking aloud was the only way, despite how ridiculous and self-conscious it would make me. I closed my eyes again. “Could you step forward, please, Mrs. Cooper?”

  Marianne's mother instantly moved closer, so her features filled my mind and I could see her clearly. I studied the image carefully in my head, opened my eyes, and began sketching.

  If anyone thought I was crazy, they remained exceptionally polite and refrained from making comment. Now I'd come across a workable solution, I spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the group in my head, transferring their likenesses to the sketchpad. Marianne's family was genuinely delighted to have contact with their beloved daughter and willing to do anything to help. The sketches mounted up as I captured them from every possible angle, ensuring I had the most accurate representations.

  When I had what I needed to make a good start, I thanked Marianne's family for their assistance and watched as they drifted back into the mist. I'd been concentrating so deeply, I hadn't realized Marianne had come to sit beside me. She was on her knees on the carpet, feet tucked neatly beneath her and her hands clasped in her lap. There was a desperate look in her brilliant eyes as I handed her the sketchpad with a smile. “They're very rough, but you're welcome to take a look.”

  With trembling hands, she took the sketchbook and Striker appeared behind her, crouching at her side, resting his hand on her back protectively. I hadn't even noticed him come into the room; I'd been so engrossed in sketching.