Chapter 4: Alexandros

Chapter

Four

ALEXANDROS

I t has been centuries since I have experienced the desire to turn another as my sired. Much longer still since I acted upon it. But there was something about Alastair Thorne, or Axl as he would now prefer to be known. I was captivated from the moment I first saw him in the park, sitting on a bench and staring into space with a look on his face that was full of both melancholy and hope. He reminded me so much of someone I have tried my hardest to forget that it brought me to a standstill. For weeks, I observed him. His calculated wooing of Duke Welsby’s betrothed. His ability to both stand out and fade into the background.

On the surface, he appeared cunning and calculated, with a vicious streak I admire. And all of that will serve him well in the world I have introduced him to, but it is that which lay just beneath the surface that intrigued me most: The deep-rooted pain within his soul that made him the callous man he is and the single spark of hope that continued to flicker within his dark heart, hinting at the man he could have been had he been raised differently. That man, I am sure, would have been considered a worthy suitor for the viscount’s daughter and would not have found himself being hunted like a dog. And thus, he would never have found himself in a position to make a bargain for his soul with a man like me. A fact made evident when he spared young Lynette’s life earlier. His beast was sated enough after two kills for him to stop feeding without my intervention, and that is also testimony to his strength of will.

Axl has remained silent for most of our walk back from Mayfair to Whitechapel, but I can hear the myriad of questions buzzing about inside his head. There is so much to learn in this new world of which he is now a part, and it is far better to learn through experience.

“If I’m to travel to the other side of the world, then I suppose I should let my mother and father know I am leaving, perhaps never to return?”

His parents live in Willesden Green. A respectable area where his father enjoys a certain level of esteem, the kind that is unearned and undeserved. It is a fair walk from Whitechapel, much faster if we run, but the streets of London are too crowded to risk detection by moving at such inhuman speeds. “I am sure we shall return here someday, Axl. However, I doubt that your parents will still be alive when we do.” I neglect to add that I doubt they will live to see another sunrise if we visit them before our departure for America.

“I think I at least owe them the decency of advising them of my leaving. I’m sure it will bring them a great sense of relief,” he adds with a delf-deprecating laugh.

“Are you sure it is wise?” is all I offer.

He frowns, his dark brown eyes scrutinizing me. “Why would it not be?”

I tip my face to the sky. It is filled with a thick blanket of smog that makes me long for the clean skies of my home in Havenwood. “You are… different from when you saw them last, are you not?”

His confusion is palpable enough even if I were not encumbered with his thoughts and feelings as his sire.

“Your father has a temper. Your mother is a constant”—I draw in a breath through my nose and go on—“disappointment to you. Is it wise to confront them when you possess such increased strength and whilst your bloodlust is still so close to the surface?”

“You think I’d hurt them?”

I shrug. “Tell me that you have not imagined wrapping your hands around your father’s neck more than once and I will call you a liar.”

He huffs with indignation. “That doesn’t mean I’d actually do it.”

“Not then. But perhaps now.”

He presses his lips together and is deep in thought for a few moments before he replies. “Whatever happens, I will not lose a moment’s sleep over it.” His voice is laced with anger. Fresh pain—the kind I am all too familiar with myself—burns hot in his chest. There is much to learn about Axl Thorne, and I am uncharacteristically keen to know all there is to know about him.

“Then we shall pay them a visit. I will secure us a carriage after nightfall. And then we will return to Whitechapel and take our fill of our companions before we set sail.”

“They’re not coming with us?” he asks.

“No. You may keep the golden-haired one as a pet if you desire, but there are many, many pleasures of the flesh for you to enjoy, young Axl, and you will have more than your fill. Women will fall at your feet.”

His pupils blow wide, and a spike of adrenaline courses through him. I do not add that men will be equally drawn to him, for I sense he has never been with a man before. Humans have such absurd puritanical notions about sexuality, and I do not wish to scare him off.

His lips twitch into a grin. “I thought maybe Kira. You seemed quite attached to her last night.”

I shake my head. I have not felt anything akin to attachment to anyone for three hundred long years. At least not until I sank my fangs into him a few nights ago. “Her blood is particularly pleasing to me. It reminded me of home. That is all.”

He nods his understanding. “How long will the bloodlust last? Is it always this intense? The hunger?”

“Bloodlust is fleeting but essential for all new vampires. Yours may have already passed. You showed a great deal of restraint when feeding on Lynette.”

He shrugs, attempting to brush off the compliment. “I was full.”

I regard him with curiosity. Axl Thorne is a beautiful paradox: brimming with an arrogance that befits his handsome good looks and chiseled physique. But he is unsure of the deeper parts of himself. Unsure of his true character, yet I see him clearly. He is a man deeply wounded by this world. To protect his fragile heart from further pain, he has built himself a suit of armor, fortified with conceit and disdain. Yet beneath the exterior he so crudely wears, he is loyal and steadfast and true. And that is why he reminds me of her. And that is why I turned him, and why I will seek my own brand of justice on the man who broke him as a boy.

Axl’s trepidation grows stronger the closer we get to his childhood home, and by the time we reach the door of 26 Hopewell Street, he is wearing his anxiety like a thick cloak. He rings the bell, and a short, sturdy housekeeper with a ruddy complexion answers the door. That she offers him a kind smile upon seeing him may save her from the fate which is sure to meet her employers.

Axl glances at me nervously as the housekeeper, who answers to Alice, shows us to the parlor. It is a room that I suspect was once grand in its own way. Plump cushions, their upholstery now faded by sunlight, are nestled together on the couch beneath the window. Silverware, so highly polished that its ornate features are now mere memories of a pattern, adorns the mantel. And the ornate bronze statue of a wolf sits beside the fireplace, its mouth open in expectation.

“Alastair!” Alastair Thorne II stands to his full height upon seeing us enter the room, rolling back his shoulders and putting me in mind of a small bear who wants to make itself look more ferocious than it is. Gray hair peppers his dark locks, congregating at his temples and giving him the appearance of a receding hairline. The cold look of disgust on his face clearly communicates his disdain for his only surviving son, and it grows exponentially more apparent when his eyes rake over me.

“Who is this”—his lip curls in a sneer—“ foreigner ”—he practically spits out the word—“you bring into my house.”

It is true that my olive skin and black hair are two things that make me stand out in London, but they are not the only things. I flick the tip of my tongue over my fangs, a reminder of the ways he is about to learn exactly how foreign I am.

Axl is hit with so many emotions at once that it takes all of my considerable skill not to let them affect me. Rage and disbelief are dominant, but the one that seems to hurt him most is shame.

You are not responsible for your father’s actions, Axl , I remind him silently through the bond we now share.

It is enough to allow him to find his voice. “This is my friend, Mr.…” He looks to me as he realizes he does not know my last name.

I offer it for him. “Drakos. Alexandros Drakos.”

That earns me only another sneer before he directs his attention back to his son. “What are you doing here?”

Axl inhales deeply. “I came to tell you and mother that I am leaving London.”

Alastair snorts, and then he glances at the woman sitting meekly in the chair in the darkest corner of the room: Margaret Thorne. I was aware of her presence as soon as I entered the room. Heartbeats are not easy to ignore, but she, as a person, is. Mousy brown hair, lips pressed together in a thin, disapproving line, slight of frame, and frail of mind. Weak in every way a person can be. “Then leave. For London will be better without you in it,” he says. The statement is followed up by a hearty laugh at, what he believes to be in any case, his own wit.

Axl’s nostrils flare, and he steps closer to his father. “Before I leave, I need to ask you a question.”

“I owe you nothing, swine.”

His father’s lip curls in disgust, but Axl presses on, undeterred, rolling back his shoulders and squaring up to the man who has tormented him his entire life. “Why did you kill Frederik?”

The question hangs in the air like a lit match dangling above a dry pile of kindling. His father’s face twists with confusion and hate. “How dare you accuse me!” His roar breaches Margaret’s stupor, making her flinch in her chair.

Axl inches closer still, his fists clenched by his sides and his entire body vibrating with the force of his long-suppressed rage. That a vampire so young is able to control his temper and thirst is admirable, and I feel an unexpected flash of pride in my choice for a companion. He was human a few short days ago, and whilst I am his sire, a remnant of his human parental bond remains. Patricide is a crime too heinous for most and, at the very least, not one to be committed upon a whim. “I know you did it.”

“Alastair.” Margaret’s weak voice travels across the room. “Your brother drowned in the lake.”

Axl turns his glare on her. “Then why did he ”—he jabs his finger into the chest of the man before him, the man who used to be his father—“have blood on his collar and cuffs? If Frederik simply drowned, where did the blood come from?” He is irate now, his teeth bared and his beast close to the surface. “And you know because you helped him burn his shirt in the fire.”

“How dare you!” Alastair raises his hand, about to bring the back of it crashing down over his son’s face. An act I suspect is so familiar within these walls that even the cherubs adorning almost every piece of art on the walls no longer blanch at the sight.

But Axl is too quick. Too strong. He catches his father’s wrist and squeezes hard, and the sounds of snapping bones and his father’s pained cries fill the room. He forces him to his knees and towers over him, shaking with vitriol. “Why did you kill Frederik?”

I am assaulted by images of a young boy with flaxen hair and smiling blue eyes, along with the sound of innocent, childish laughter as memories of his younger brother swim through Axl’s head.

“I did not kill him,” Alastair insists.

I take a few steps closer, pushing through the wall of Axl’s rage, and observe his father a little more closely. He cries, tears rolling down his cheeks. I am vaguely aware of Margaret crying too, pleading with her son to let his father go, but it is Alastair Thorne II that I am most interested in. He is hiding something, yet it appears, at least on the surface, that he truly believes the words coming from his mouth.

It is a strange and unique facet of the human condition that the mind is often unable to distinguish between reality and truth, and if a person can convince themselves of a lie—perhaps because the truth is too heinous to accept—then they will come to believe the falsehood as reality.

I cannot be sure if that is the case here, but I am sure of Axl Thorne. I have combed his memories and witnessed the cruelty the man on his knees has shown, as well as the coldness of his mother. He shakes his father, fingers tightening their grip until Alastair’s face turns an unnatural and mottled shade of purple.

I place a hand on Axl’s forearm, and he mellows at my touch. “He is unlikely to give you the truth you are searching for.” A tear runs down his face at this realization. “But I can dig out that truth for you.”

He turns to me, eyes shining with unbridled hope, his hand still clutching his father’s throat. “You can?”

I nod. “There is a price to pay.” I crack my neck and groan with the release of tension it offers. “But if you are willing to pay it, then I will give you the truth.” My fangs ache. It has been a long time since I have enjoyed killing anyone as much as I am about to enjoy this. “Are you willing to pay, Axl?”

His dark eyes narrow on my face. He could ask me what the price is, but he does not. I suspect he already knows. Still, I offer him a clue anyway. “Blood never lies.”

He pushes his father to the floor with a roar and steps back, running his hand through his hair. “I’ll pay whatever price there is to pay.”

Hunger and anticipation snake through my veins.

“Son, I never—” Alastair’s protest is cut off by my teeth sinking into his throat as I hoist him to his feet. He melts into my arms, blubbering and clinging to the despicable foreigner like a lover. His blood coats my tongue, and I focus on his mind and tune everything else out.

Margaret’s fingernails claw at my arm through my coat, and I silence her with a hand around her windpipe. I squeeze tightly, aware of her heart slowing to a stop as the life leaves her body. She drops to the floor with a thud, and I feel not a single ounce of pity or grief from her son. I continue combing through Alastair’s memories, and they are legion. Some of Axl which I would linger on if I had the time, but I do not. Instead, I search for Frederik. For the young boy with the sparkling blue eyes and infectious laughter.

But Alastair’s memories of him are not as vibrant as Axl’s are. They are clouded by hatred and shadows. Painful and brutal. Finally, I find the day I am searching for. Frederik’s blue eyes wide with horror and brimming with tears.

The last words he spoke: “Please, father. No!”

And the last words which were spoken to him: “I am not your father, Bastard! You are the spawn of a dirty foreign devil.” I relive the memory with this pathetic excuse for a man, of him smashing a rock over the boy’s head and then carrying his lifeless body to the lake and submerging him there. I witness his conversation with the previous viscount afterward, where the two of them agreed to the price of silence.

Alastair Thorne II now has the gall to cry, his fingers grasping at my coat but failing to find a hold as the pain of the memory washes over him. And now that I have what I need, I make him feel an entirely different kind of pain. I sink my teeth deeper into his flesh, tearing at the tendons and sucking greedily. When the flow of his lifeblood slows, I yank his head back by his hair and rip out his entire gullet, blooding gushing freely from the wound.

Once more, I tap into his mind and ensure that mine are the last words he hears. This is for your sons. For Frederik. And for Alastair.