17. Alaric

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ALARIC

Gideon: I have news, Allie.

One of my informants has told me of a local vampire, Baylor Godsven, of the Blood Ptolemy, who may have unnatural tastes. He got into trouble with the Mora in Finland a couple of decades ago for inappropriate relations with a human. He’s now living on an estate not far from Argleton, and there have been rumours floating around about what he does to humans and vampires in his manor.

My informant believes he’d be the type to enjoy exploring a taboo like husking. Tell your mother to hold on to her tits, I will investigate.

BTW, could I interest you in an investment opportunity? Guaranteed two hundred percent return, no money down…

I n my study, I draw my favoured sword from its hiding place and with the roar of a beast who longs for things that cannot be his, I attack the towering stacks of ceramic pots. My eyes cloud with the fog of the battlefield as I hack and slash and slay – the only things I’m made for.

By the time I surface from the fog, my chest heaving, my arms aching, I’m standing amidst the ruins of my art, Winnie’s moan a roar in my veins.

Reginald appears at the door, broom in hand.

“I’ll clean up, my lord. She need not know a thing.”

Disgusted at myself and buzzing with the thrill of my name on Winnie’s lips, I return to my office to work on her portrait some more. But after several hours, I give up. I have failed in my mission to capture something of her beauty and brilliance on canvas. I debate tearing the canvas to pieces, but decide to keep it – sometimes, I will take elements from discarded works to reuse on a new piece. I don’t like the idea of tearing apart Winnie’s likeness, however poorly I’ve rendered her.

But likewise, I don’t want to leave the painting on the desk for Winnie to see, nor the eye sculpture. Now I know that she…that she’s attracted to me, I don’t want to hurt her by allowing her to see such an inferior likeness of her, nor tempt her to consider me as anything other than a client. I want to give her something she can take with her back to London, some small memory of her time here that might encapsulate how much she’s helped me and how deeply I…

No, she cannot see this worthless doodle.

Her breathy voice whispering my name pounds inside my skull as I pick up the canvas and the sculpture and hurry down the hall. There’s a small secret room opposite the dining room that has lain empty for some years. I once used it to hide a priest escaping the wrath of Queen Elizabeth. The narrow doorway can be hidden behind a tapestry, and the way the castle walls shape around the landscape hides its presence.

I fling open the door and drop my mistakes inside. I will start again tomorrow.

I cannot sleep.

Usually, when I close the lid of my coffin, I am dead to the world.

(That’s my little joke, since I am always dead to the world.)

Inside the velvet-lined walls of my eternal resting place, both my body and mind usually find rest.

But not today. I toss and turn. Every time I close my eyes, I hear her voice whisper my name, soft and breathy.

“Alaric.”

I hear her come apart, her moans dissolving as the pleasure claims her body. My name bursting from her pretty lips.

And I wish, I wish more than I have wished for anything else in my long life, that I could join her.

But she is not for me.

I made myself a promise when I took Black Crag from its last owner, when I first stood behind these stone walls and looked out at a world that wanted to burn me, I would wall myself off. Not only would this castle protect me from the wrath of humans and my court, and enable me to create in peace, but it would be a prison to protect them from me .

I would never grant another human the Kiss.

I have become so content in my routines and my distractions that I’ve allowed myself to forget I am the monster, the minotaur at the centre of my maze. I let Reginald talk me into allowing Winnie inside the castle, behind my walls, and now she’s inside, her sunshine and strawberry scent breaking down the defences I’ve built over centuries.

I never imagined that I could feel such things for a human …

And worse, despite my efforts, she feels something for me, something that makes her call my name with such ardent need …

But we cannot sate our hunger for each other. I will not turn her, and we cannot lie together as human and vampire. The risk of Dhampir is too great.

I give up on sleep. I must come clean about who I am, what I’ve done, and send Winnie far away from this castle. As much as I wish we could find a way, after what I heard last night, I cannot allow her to stay.

She needs to know that she’s working for a monster.

I shove aside the lid of my coffin. Many vampires have eschewed caskets for the outwardly human appearance of a bed, but ours is an ancient family and my mother is a stickler for the traditions. I spent my first century sleeping in a coffin, and even after I ran away and came to Black Crag, I found I could not give up the comfort of the darkness. Beds with their flimsy sheets feel too exposed. I’ve heard enough tales of vampires staked in their beds at night by zealous villagers. The coffin, at least, offers some protection against superstitious would-be heroes.

Even with the heavy curtains closed and the lamps extinguished, the oppressive sunlight leaks into my room. We vampires will not burn up in a cloud of ash upon immediate exposure to the sun, but the burning helldisk will make us sick. Prolonged exposure can kill us.

Some vampires will train themselves with short exposures to endure the sun, and some of the modern vampire clans have a higher tolerance. Years of preserving our noble bloodline have ensured our Valerian blood is more sensitive than others, and most members of the Valerian Clan shutter themselves away completely.

I have never seen the appeal of exposing myself to that raging sphere of agony…until Winnie entered my house. I’m loath to spend a single moment away from her.

I throw on a shirt and breeches and head down to my study to paint. I begin another three portraits of Winnie, but they’re all terrible, so I toss them in the priest’s hole. I am midway through a fourth when I realise that an image of her won’t do. I need the real thing.

I drag my weakened body across the castle and climb the stairs to her bedroom. I cannot hear her music blasting from downstairs, so I assume she is still in bed. I tell myself that I will not enter her room. I simply wish to assure myself that she is safe and sleeping soundly.

My steps are slow, sluggish, dragged down by the lines of orange fire that singe my skin from through the arrow slits in the tower walls. I am panting as I reach the landing, and discover her door flung open, and her bed empty.

“Winnie?” I call out.

I hear a muffled giggle from far away. Not inside the castle, but…

Tentatively, I part the edge of the curtain. I wince, flinching away as a triangle of fire scorches my retinas. But I need to see her.

Winnie’s window overlooks one of the two inner courtyards of the castle. This particular courtyard is one of my favourite places to sit in the evenings – the moonlight glints off a serene Medusa fountain and captures the beauty of the nocturnal flowering plants I tend. In the daylight, all is harsh and dire.

From the wild grin on Winnie’s face, she doesn’t think so. She and Mirabelle are playing some kind of game – chasing each other around the narrow stone edge of the fountain. As I watch, smiling at their antics, Mirabelle darts through Winnie’s legs, and Winnie wobbles, her arms flailing out to the sides.

Even with the dark-tinted windows, the thin streak of sunlight burns against my skin. I drink in one final look at Winnie, then drop the curtain with a sigh.

SPLASH.

“Help!”

Winnie.

The distress in her voice has me flinging the curtains open. I shield my eyes from the burning light. It takes a moment for her to come into view. She is submerged in the fountain, which had once been a reservoir for storing water during sieges and is much deeper than it appears. Mirabelle sits on the edge, happily cleaning between her toes as Winnie flails in the water, her head disappearing beneath the surface.

She can’t swim.

I fly down the staircase and through the house, pouring speed into my sluggish limbs. As a vampire, I’m fast, but I’m also dulled by the sunlight. By the time I make it outside, she’s already underwater. The sun beats down on my back, hot and harsh, or perhaps that’s my fear. I tear off my shirt and leap in after her.

The cold water offers only momentary relief from the sun’s wicked burn. I can barely see her through the red welts in my eyes, her body sinking like a stone down into the black depths of the reservoir.

I pour strength I do not know I possess into my legs, kicking hard. I grab her beneath the arms. She is dead weight, her head lolling, her eyes wide and lifeless.

No, please, no.

The red dots swallow my vision. My limbs are on fire, but I hug her to my chest. Her skin is supposed to be warm against mine but she’s cold, so cold. I kick, hoping that I’m kicking in the right direction?—

My head breaks the surface. Mirabelle yelps in distress as I send a wave over the side of the fountain, drenching her. The cruel sun beats down, and I’m screaming with agony as I haul her from the water and cradle her in my arms.

“Winnie, you’re safe now. I’ve got you. Please, Winnie, wake up.”

I tilt her face to mine, but she’s not breathing. I don’t know what to do. Humans are so fragile, their bodies so easily broken.

I don’t think about how wrong it is or how I’m skirting the edges of breaking my oath to myself.

I raise my hand to my mouth and nick my index finger with my fang.

A pearl of blood pools from the cut – crimson and perfect. I pull open her cold, pale lips and smear the blood across her tongue just as Reginald rushes from the castle behind me.

“My lord, what are you doing?”

“Winnie, please…” I reach for her, but the sun burns away my despair. “Drink. I can’t bear to lose you.”

Everything goes black.